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A Tehuantepec Beauty Watson 

A Department Store 


Little Buddies 


Another Plantation Belle 




fJMachettj 

“IT HAPPENED IN MEXICO” 


By 

Charles Merriam 


& 


The Southwest Press 


DALLAS 


TEXAS 


JUL 




Copyright 1932 
The Southwest Press 


1932 


©CIA 52907 


To 

MY MOTHER 









CONTENTS 


Chapter Pa GE 

I. Inside the Front Door of Mexico .... 1 

II. From Mule Chaperon to “Doctor” .... 12 

III. Established as “Medico” to the Bush Monkeys . 24 

IV. A Black Colossus of the Bush.32 

V. “Dios! What Foolishness is Marriage” ... 39 

VI. Girls, Smugglers and Liquor in Port of Mexico . 5 1 

VII. Tequila Flows at a Zapotecan Funeral ... 64 

VIII. “But Senorita, I am not a 

Doctor ”—“Muy Comico ”.77 

IX. Labor War with Lousy Peons.86 

X. Fiesta Nights and Flashing Machetes .... 105 

XI. Horrors! Guadalupe! Another Aztec is Born . 116 

XII. Surgical Operations and Mystic Rites . . . . 124 

XIII. The Bush Preferred to “Too Many Laws and 

Too Much American Prosperity” . . . 136 

XIV. “Caramba! What a Land for a Caballero” 

was Mexico.144 

XV. Skyrockets, Tequila and Mournful Music and 

a Big Toe is Buried.152 

XVI. A Negro of “Talents” Ruined by Savage Love . 161 

XVII. The Plague and Steaming Jungle Get Our 

Loved Santiago.173 

XVIII. A Daughter of the Sage Brush Gives a 

Life to the Jungle.182 

XIX. A Machete Flash in the Moonlight . . . 191 

XX. Mexican Mendoza, Victim of His Own Racket . 201 

XXI. Our Chinese Cook Believes in Barbaric Mystery 212 

XXII. Too Many Toasts to the Patron Saint 

and Muy Caballero is Dead.220 

XXIII. The Glamorous Jungle Recedes Through Tears 227 


v 
















<JWachete-j 

By Charles Merriam 
CHAPTER I 

Inside the Front Door of Mexico 

“Well” drawled Redner, “it’s about time to 
ankle along if we want to spear that drink before we 
eat.” Raising his head he yawned indolently and 
gazed out over the harbor. 

The long wailing notes of a melancholy bugle call 
floated faintly across the placid water. A file of white- 
clad sailors marshaled on the after-deck of a trim 
grey gunboat and stood stiffly at attention while the 
red, white and green ensign of Mexico fluttered 
slowly down from its flagstaff for an honorable rest. 
A cannon boomed. Ships’ riding lights twinkled in 
the softening purple. Another bugle wailed from the 
grim walls of San Juan de Ulua; another red, white 
and green ensign descended from its tall staff. The 
shadows lengthened. The azure sky leaned closer, 
like a benediction. 

“Well?” drawled Redner again, questioning. Get¬ 
ting up from the bench he stretched the cramps from 
his body by lifting his arms above his head. 

“We got to step on it if we want that drink.” There 
was anticipation in his tone. 

1 


2 


MACHETE 


Far away back of the city, giant mountains stretched 
a jagged outline against the glow of the setting sun. 
The time-softened tints of old Vera Cruz grew 
softer. 

“Well?” questioned Redner once more, somewhat 
petulantly. 

I rose reluctantly. 

“Damned if it don’t sort of get you,” he concili¬ 
ated, sensing my attitude. “But wait! This is just 
the front door.” He waved his hand in an encompass¬ 
ing gesture. “You’ll get over this 'pronto after you 
get down in the bush.” 

As we walked shoreward from the end of the 
long government pier the lighthouse which rises 
above the Immigration Building started flashing. 
From the doorway of a cantina floated the rhythmic 
tinkle of a guitar and the music of a clear-voiced 
singer. A few stars glimmered faintly. A gentle 
breeze purred. It was cool. The pungent odors of 
tropics and seaport and evening filled the air. 

“Yes,” my acquaintance agreed, glancing about ap¬ 
preciatively, “There’s sure something about it. I 
wouldn’t have stayed for more than twenty years if 
there wasn’t. But,” he paused emphatically, “there’s 
a damn big lot you can’t see from here!” 

When we reached the central Plaza a conventional 
throng was gathering in the sidewalk cafes. Street 
lights blinked faintly in the half-light of early night. 
My first day in Mexico was over. I had arrived in the 
morning with a Spanish-English dictionary and a 
letter entitling me to a job on the Isthmus of Tehu- 


MACHETE 


3 


antepec. On the steamship Monterrey coming down 
from New York I had met Redner. 

“This your first trip, isn’t it?” he inquired soon 
after we sat down to our initial meal. It needed no 
second glance to convince an old timer that I was 
a newcomer to the country. 

“I’ll sort of help you through the customs and 
get you started,” he volunteered kindly, when I as¬ 
sured him that I had never been to Mexico before. 
He seemed familiar with all parts of the country, 
so I asked him if he had ever been to the Isthmus of 
Tehuantepec. 

“Went all over it some years ago,” he replied. 
“Wonderful jungle mud-hole, most of it. Full of 
fever and snakes. But the thing I remember best 
about it was the big breasts of the women I saw bath¬ 
ing along the streams, and the little ones on the 
cows.” 

True to his word he helped me through the cus¬ 
toms and after the ordeal I realized what a kindness 
he had shown me. 

When we reached the cafe, an extremely polite 
waiter seated us and we became part of a throng of 
idlers enjoying before-dinner cocktails. Flocks of 
blackbirds settled into the trees of the Plaza, quar¬ 
reling as noisily as delegates to a peace preservation 
convention. The velvety night fell. I sipped my cock¬ 
tail reverently. To do otherwise would have been a 
desecration. It was a fragrant masterpiece com¬ 
pounded of the fresh juices of ripe fruits and fine 
old rum. My acquaintance drained his glass in the 


4 


MACHETE 


rather hurried, rather pleased manner of one having 
satisfied a long cherished desire. 

I felt supremely contented and at peace with the 
world. An old ambition had been gratified. I was 
in Mexico. From the time when as a small boy I had 
heard my father discussing with another soldier the 
magnificent courage of a Mexican army officer, I had 
wanted to go to Mexico. It had impressed me as a 
land teeming with strange and sinister possibilities. 
I had pictured small bands of rurales battling to the 
death with sweeping, yelling bands of big-hatted ban¬ 
dits. Swiftly dashing ponies. Fierce black eyes. Flash¬ 
ing teeth. The whine of bullets. Its spell was upon 
me, even before I approached its shores. 

When I spoke to my brother who headed a com¬ 
pany owning a small sugar plantation on the Isthmus 
of Tehuantepec about going, he grumbled defen¬ 
sively. “What the hell use would you be in the 
tropics? You don’t know anything about agriculture. 
You wouldn’t be any good around a sugar factory. 
You don’t know ...” But in the end he capitulated. 
Purely in self-defense he agreed that I was to go to 
Tehuantepec to act as nurse to a team of mules or 
wipe the grease from dirty tractors, or perform any 
other task which would require for its accomplish¬ 
ment more of physical effort than of understanding. 

So at last I was in Mexico. The waiter hurried with 
another cocktail. The hum of conversation in Spanish 
made a quiet, entrancing melody. Across the Plaza 
the hallowed bulk of the ancient Cathedral caught the 
glow of the street lamps. Occasionally the bells 


MACHETE 


5 


tolled. The day before a jealous youth had shot and 
killed his sweetheart there as she knelt at prayer. A 
continuous procession of bootblacks, lottery ticket 
vendors and beggars moved past our table. Some 
exhibited cruel sores and festering monstrosities in 
an effort to elicit larger donations. 

“I hate to turn the bums down flat!” commented 
my acquaintance, flipping a coin at a particularly 
ragged mendicant. “Some of them are rotting with 
syphilis. Others have valid reasons for being hard 
up, but it certainly don’t help the appetite none to 
look at their putrid sores.” I had no wish to disagree 
with him. 

A military band filed into the bandstand which 
occupied the center of the square as our dinner was 
being brought in. The few remaining tables quickly 
filled. An overdressed chubby woman appeared with 
her tall bald-headed husband. The Trainors had been 
fellow passengers on the boat, and as there were no 
unoccupied tables I motioned to them to join us. Mrs. 
Trainor smiled an acceptance and led the way. 

“Whew, it’s hot!” she complained, slumping down 
in a chair and fanning herself with the menu. “I 
don’t think I’d need any diet if I lived here. I think 
I’ve shrunk some already.” She brightened, trying 
with her hands to discover some slack in her dress. 
Her husband sat meekly beside her and occupied him¬ 
self by gazing longingly at a pretty dark-skinned 
girl. 

“John!” commanded his wife, darkly. 


6 


MACHETE 


He shifted his gaze and smiled sheepishly, like a 
boy detected in disobedience. 

“He thinks because he’s something of a chanti¬ 
cleer that he’s still a youth’s companion,” Mrs. 
Trainor explained derisively. 

“Well, anyway, Ma,” he beamed a little uncer¬ 
tainly, “they ain’t murdered no monkeys for me yet.” 

The lady’s appearance changed to that of a small 
red thunder-cloud and she grumbled something to 
her napkin. But her husband continued to beam and 
talk, and evidently make the best of a rare oppor¬ 
tunity. 

The band burst into a gay march and the side¬ 
walks quickly filled with promenaders. A bent brown 
man with a scrubby white-streaked beard passed. He 
failed to smile as he acknowledged the cheerful 
greeting accorded him by my acquaintance. His 
sunken deep-set eyes hardly shifted from their fixed 
look forward. Smiling, for him, seemed something 
impossible. 

“There’s a native of Tehuantepec,” said Redner 
after he went by. “Don Guillermo was born in San 
Juan Evangelista. One night as we sat here at this 
same table he told me his story. His father was a 
Syrian who ran a little store down at San Juan. He 
was the only son, so a particular effort was made to 
give him an education. When he finished the local 
school he was sent to Mexico City to complete his 
studies. He was a strong-bodied, dreamy boy with 
imagination enough to do his own thinking and force 
of character enough to express his own ideas. He 


MACHETE 


7 


made friends in college with a youth from the north 
who had been to the States and seen the condition 
of laboring men there. Of course, he could not be¬ 
lieve all his friend’s stories of laborers who owned 
houses and wore shoes and sent their children to 
school. Such things were just impossible. His friend 
had let his enthusiasm interfere with his veracity. 
He was not dishonest and it was easy to forgive him 
his exaggeration. When he returned home after col¬ 
lege he used to amuse groups of peons by telling 
them the things he had heard. The peons used to 
laugh, but it started them talking and a few of them 
thinking. The ...” 

“Don’t they have any public schools?” interrupted 
Mrs. Trainor. 

“They have a few now, but before the revolution 
the only real public schools were in the larger cities,” 
answered Redner. 

“The Presidente Municipal of San Juan,” he con¬ 
tinued, “did not like the boy or his stories. The boy 
was stubborn and the stories put bad notions in the 
heads of the lazy peons. It was certainly evil and un¬ 
necessary—such idle talk—in the land of the good 
Don Porfirio. It might make the peons want to own 
land themselves and learn to read and write. Then 
they would no longer be peons. The Presidente did 
not forget. 

One of the rich hacienda owners of Yucatan sent 
an agent to Tehuantepec to collect peons for his 
hacienda. The agent offered the good Presidente a 
generous price for every laborer he could secure for 


8 


MACHETE 


Yucatan. The Presidente cleared his jail and loaded 
the jailbirds on box cars under the guard of soldiers. 
He had other soldiers to arrest on trumped-up 
charges every man about town who was in any way 
offensive to his administration. Among the latter was 
Guillermo. He had these poor wretches packed into 
the box cars with the jailbirds. Then he turned the 
whole lot over to the agent and collected his com¬ 
mission ...” 

“But certainly in a republic ...” I started to inter¬ 
rupt. 

“Republic!” he laughed. “Republic! Why, the 
only Republic was in the story books. All candidates 
for every public office were picked by the governors of 
the states and the governors were appointed in Mexi¬ 
co City. If a group of people wanted a certain man 
to become a candidate for office and the governor did 
not like him he just didn’t become a candidate. If he 
did, something happened to him. The people kissed 
the hand that socked them and liked it—they had 
to.” 

“But if enough people wanted a change they cer¬ 
tainly could get it by making their wishes known,” I 
suggested. 

“Yes, by taking up arms to enforce their ideas— 
by revolution,” he answered. 

“Was that their only way?” I asked. 

“That was their only way,” he answered. “After 
the agent had collected his commission he gave the 
Presidente a fine banquet to show his appreciation,” 
Redner continued. “Guillermo’s father offered all he 


MACHETE 


9 


possessed in an effort to secure the release of his son. 
Ordinarily the Presidente would have accepted the 
bribe, but Guillermo and his stories were dangerous, 
and the Presidente was a patriot. The laborers were 
sent away to Yucatan under the heavy guard of sol¬ 
diers. It was a year before Guillermo returned, a 
broken, fever-stricken wreck. The soldiers guarding 
the Presidente smirked when they saw him. Slowly 
his mother and sisters nursed him back to health and 
when he was strong once more he left for another 
town. There were other haciendas needing laborers. 
Deep down in his soul there burned a fierce resent¬ 
ment. Possibly it was his foreign blood. When the 
revolution broke he was one of the first to join and 
he led a small band of Rebels in the capture of San 
Juan. As leader of the band he had the pleasure of 
personally killing his old enemy the Presidente. The 
government sent a powerful force and drove Don 
Guillermo and his followers from the town. These 
soldiers murdered the old Syrian, his father, and 
burned his store and confiscated his goods. It was a 
year before Guillermo could return. When he finally 
got back he found nothing left but the fire-blackened 
walls of his father’s store and an old Indian woman 
mumbling in a corner. She did not seem to remember 
very well. Guillermo had a hard time convincing her 
that he was her son. He took her back to the camp of 
Revolutionists, but the rough life was too much for 
her and she soon died. It was a long time before he 
learned definitely what had become of his sisters. 
One had died while giving birth to the child of the 


10 


MACHETE 


brave captain she was forced to live with. The sol¬ 
diers had tired of the other. She was a prostitute in 
Cordoba.” Redner paused. 

“Well,” sniffed Mrs. Trainor, “there were laws 
in the country and I think that all this revolution 
could have been avoided, if people who had real 
grievances had taken their troubles to the law in the 
first place.” 

“That’s a hot one,” laughed Redner mirthlessly. 
“There was no law in those days but the will of the 
aristocracy.” 

It was getting late. The stars seemed very near in 
the soft night. George, the English-speaking West- 
Indian negro who was to help me to the train 
shuffled up to remind me to be ready to leave the 
hotel by eight. I thanked Redner for his kindness and 
bade my acquaintances good-bye. Across the Plaza 
the deep-toned bell clanged, commanding, just as 
it did in the days, long, long, ago before its counter¬ 
part in a strange young city far to the north sum¬ 
moned together a small band of enthusiasts imbued 
with the idea that all men are created equal. The 
venerable palm trees of the square, nodding in the 
silent evening breeze, whispered weird tales of 
bleeding, whip-cut captives, trembling in their fright 
and anguish; of gentle soft-eyed maidens outraged 
by leering brutes in crested armor; of hordes of fair¬ 
skinned soldiers who died like flies from fever; the 
thunder of great guns; the crash of huge exploding 
shells; the horror of conquest; the wails of a strick- 


MACHETE 


11 


en people. Shouted curses! Blasphemy! Torture! And 
death! 

The deep-toned Cathedral bell tolled solemnly. 
The city slept. 


CHAPTER II 

From Mule Chaperon to “Doctor” 

I had just finished breakfast when George ar¬ 
rived at the business end of a small hand-cart. Upon 
this, with the assistance of the hotel porter, he 
loaded my belongings for transport to the railroad 
station. 

“I hates to work with these heathens,” he volun¬ 
teered, pausing a moment to mop a very moist fore¬ 
head. “I has personality, and a Christian man don’t 
get no chance to show his personality among infidels.” 

My train did not leave till nine, but it was well 
that I had adopted George’s suggestion and allowed 
a generous half-hour to procure my transportation. 
A solid mass of peons, with their babies and other 
belongings were packed about the ticket window and 
purchasing a ticket was a slow and distinctly odorous 
proceeding. When finally seated in the railroad 
coach it lacked but a few minutes till starting time. 

Turning to George who stood expectantly by, I 
inquired the amount of my debt. He rolled his eyes 
to heaven and went through spasms of mental 
arithmetic, ultimately arriving at a figure which 
seemed unreasonably large for the service rendered. 
I paid him with a feeling that I was being badly 
imposed upon. But he looked disdainfully at the 
money, carefully counted it and stuffed it into his 
pocket. Turning half aside he gazed sorrowfully out 
12 



MACHETE 


13 


of the car window, spit on the floor, and as he started 
to leave grumbled disgustedly, “For an American 
gentleman, Boss, you spends mighty little money.” 
I learned later that he had grossly overcharged me. 

A new superintendent was also on the way to the 
Plantation. 

“My name’s Sutton,” he volunteered amiably, as 
soon as he was sure of my identity. 

“What part of the game do you play?” he asked 
after introductions were concluded. 

“I don’t know. I never saw a sugar plantation in 
my life,” I answered. 

“What!” he burst out, “You mean to say you 
never saw a sugar plantation!” 

“No,” I assured him. 

“Whew!” he gasped. “Are you an engineer or 
have you had training in any special subject—or,” he 
added with a smile, “has your brother just played a 
joke on you?” 

“I know something about civil engineering, or I can 
run a tractor or chaperon a team of mules,” I an¬ 
swered, a little less enthusiastically. 

“Buddie,” he looked at me woefully, “you sure 
cut yourself a piece of cake—a piece of chocolate 
cake.” 

I began to feel that running a tractor in the jungle 
had its drawbacks. 

The train jolted slowly along over a very uneven 
roadbed. The whistle would screech and the brakes 
grind and the train would bump to a stop in the midst 


14 


MACHETE 


of a jungle clearing cluttered with sordid huts, made 
from the leaves of palm trees. 

Barefooted people, scrawny pigs and undersized 
poultry roamed freely in and out of the huts. Horses 
and cattle, too big to enter freely, stood around out¬ 
side in the shade of trees and fought swarms of in¬ 
sects. Many of the huts looked as if they might be 
on fire. There was cooking going on inside and the 
huts had no chimneys. The heat was intense and 
damp and sticky. 

“How you like it?” asked Sutton as we stopped at 
a particularly doleful looking village. 

“I guess I’ll get used to it all right.” 

“I’ll say, and how!” he mused. “But I bet you 
wish many times that you were a sugar daddy back 
on Broadway, instead of a sugar man down here in 
this part of the world.” 

The train was due in Santa Lucrecia at eight- 
thirty, but it was after eleven when we reached there. 
The only electric lights in the town were a few dim 
ones around the depot. Numbers of natives, men, 
women, children and dogs lay sleeping around the 
station platform. Mosquitoes swarmed. The dogs 
scratched themselves, but the humans reposed un¬ 
troubled. A short way down the track a small crowd 
was shouting and stamping in time to the weird, 
jumpy music of a fandango. At one end of the sta¬ 
tion a few dim lights constituted a restaurant, where 
an English lady, her husband, and the handsome 
young Mexican Army officer who commanded our 
train guard, joined Sutton and me for coffee. 


MACHETE 


15 


“How different from Bagdad!” commented the 
lady, glancing wistfully at the misty outlines of the 
not far distant jungle. 

“So you miss those desert nights with the tom¬ 
toms and everything?” volunteered Sutton. 

The lady sighed. 

“I was with the troops who opposed your General 
Pershing, but those times are long over now,” con¬ 
tributed the immaculate young soldier pleasantly, in 
very broken English. 

Two rather pretty girls, easily distinguishable on 
account of their modish attire and correctly bobbed 
hair, passed, going in the direction of the fandango. 
The young officer smiled pleasantly, acknowledging 
their dignified salutation. 

“Two of your society girls?” I was prompted to 
inquire, impressed by their smart appearance and 
quiet demeanor. 

“No. Two of our most prominent prostitutes,” he 
replied quite frankly. 

Near us a barefooted youth started singing a wail¬ 
ing native song in a clear, strong voice, accompanying 
himself on a guitar in that entrancing manner which 
is entirely the art of the native Mexican. A well- 
formed girl stood proudly by his side, her wealth of 
raven hair reflecting the dim glow from the few 
lights like polished metal. As he drew near the end 
of his song, she patted him affectionately on the 
shoulder. 



16 


MACHETE 


“My, the music and the incomprehensible some¬ 
thing of this wilderness! The effect is like a strong 
drug that deadens the civilized instincts!” the Eng¬ 
lish lady commented. “As you droll Americans would 
say, one feels like a lucky dog” her lips parted won- 
deringly—“but with all your American latitude I 
fail to understand how you can properly designate a 
woman a lucky dog.” 

Near midnight, the chief and I retired to an 
empty coal shed, which somehow had been misnamed 
a hotel, to reach which it was necessary to pass over 
a narrow foot bridge that trembled as we walked. 
The building itself was perched on stilts over a 
swamp which adjoined the railroad grade. The rooms 
were windowless stalls with partitions that did not 
reach the roof. The slightest sound echoed through¬ 
out the entire structure. We passed a fairly comfor¬ 
table night. None of the guests snored. 

Next morning we noticed that the front of the 
building was spattered with marks made by buck¬ 
shot where a former candidate for mayor had been 
removed from the list of aspirants. It was still very 
early as we walked to the river landing. The com¬ 
pany launch waited there to take us down the Coat- 
zacoalcos to the plantation. On the way we passed a 
few tiny villages with groups of women in front, 
washing clothing and bathing. After the Broadway 
revues they seemed prudish. 

Finally a tall chimney came into view ahead, ris¬ 
ing up out of the jungle, and fields of waving sugar¬ 
cane appeared on the river bank. The launch drew to 


MACHETE 


17 


the shore and we climbed out at the plantation land¬ 
ing. A light flat car, drawn by the wiry mount of a 
barefooted corsair, conveyed us over the plantation 
narrow-gage to a small group of white-washed build¬ 
ings which were the living quarters of the white em¬ 
ployees. Back of the living quarters frowned the un¬ 
prepossessing corrugated iron bulk of the sugar fac¬ 
tory with its tall smokestack and a surrounding of 
low shed-like buildings which were the shops and 
storehouses. A few nondescript thatched huts clus¬ 
tered about the shops. 

In the distance stretched the green, undulating 
expanse of the cane fields. A few barefooted slat¬ 
ternly women, with large wooden tubs balanced on 
top of their heads stumbled along single file, moving 
in the direction of the huts. A bone-thin dog scratched 
incessantly in the scant shade of a low bush. The 
air swarmed with tiny, black, voracious flies which 
left stinging red welts where they bit. As the flat 
car came to a stop a small tired-looking mute, teth¬ 
ered near, raised its head and, moving its ears for¬ 
ward, regarded us intently. 

“Bless her dear intelligent soul, she recognizes her 
new nursie! ” laughed the superintendent. “And does 
she appreciate you?” he continued. “Say! Look at her 
eyes! Ain’t they shining like a bathroom in a first- 
class hotel? Does she appreciate you?” he paused 
dramatically, “And how!” 

“Well,” he continued, a little sarcastically, after 
his mirth had subsided, “Home at last. Yonder’s the 


18 


MACHETE 


chateau. Say!” he turned and looked directly at me, 
“No kidding! How’d you like it?” 

“Looks like a nice quiet place,” I answered. 

“And how!” he agreed with his favorite expres¬ 
sion. “Nice and quiet! Quiet and nice and the snakes 
and the silent jungle, and above the smiling sky . . .” 
he droned. “Well, I would leave Cuba and you 
would come away from Broadway. See the world! 
Travel! It’s broadening! Think what it means to 
be able to say, ‘I’ve been there!’ ” He looked at me 
ruefully. “Way down upon the Old Plantation” he 
started singing in a throaty voice. 

Tehuantepec did not seem to impress him very 
favorably. 

In the morning I started work with a gang of 
undersized peons excavating the foundation for a 
new cooling tank. Rickets, a lank ebony ‘British Ob¬ 
ject 5 —for so he described himself—was attached as 
interpreter. For some years the Plantation had been 
closed down due to a succession of revolutions. Now 
every effort was being made to get it into condition 
to grind the coming crop. When I asked Rickets how 
he liked the country he grew thoughtful. 

“The country’s all right but the people, O-o-o-h! ” 
He sounded discouraged, like a stalled locomotive 
letting off steam. “They’re just murdering, thieving 
devils what can’t speak the truth, for it ain’t in em!” 
He slowly mopped the sweat from his face with an 
untidy bandanna and regarded me with an uncertain 
expression. “Why, Boss,” he continued, “there ain’t 


MACHETE 


19 


but few of ’em married and they live in adultery, 
producing children just as rapid as possible.” 

My second morning a tall youth appeared, drag¬ 
ging a yoke of small oxen behind him. The Chief 
had sent the boy and his unwilling little animals to 
help with the excavation. Each of the poor little crea¬ 
tures had several inflamed looking lumps on his neck 
from which drops of blood occasionally oozed. They 
seemed so tiny compared with northern work ani¬ 
mals and the inflamed lumps looked so painful that 
I was prompted to ask the interpreter what caused 
them. 

“Marahuihy ” answered Rickets, keeping on with 
his shoveling. 

“Marahuils?” I questioned. The name meant 
nothing to me. 

“Yes,” he mopped with the untidy bandanna, 
“They just come in from the bush and the driver 
ain’t had time to clean ’em yet.” 

It seemed that Marahuils were a form of burrow¬ 
ing parasite, common on the Isthmus, and that all 
animals were subject to their infection. The natives 
removed them by placing a few drops of strong to¬ 
bacco juice in the entrance to their burrow and cover¬ 
ing the entire inflammation with the white adhesive 
gum formed by the partially dried sap of an indige¬ 
nous tree. This procedure killed the parasite and 
made its removal a fairly simple matter. However, 
if any part of the parasite were left in the wound, an 
infection started which sometimes became serious. 
Not infrequently humans became infected, always 


20 


MACHETE 


with painful and often with grave results. There 
were spots of dried blood on the flanks of the little 
animals, which I soon perceived to be caused by the 
driver with a wire-pointed goad. I had Rickets ex¬ 
plain that in any work I had charge of wire-pointed 
goads would be entirely dispensed with. The youth 
looked puzzled. 

“What will we do if the oxen get lazy and let their 
tongues hang out?” he asked through the interpre¬ 
ter. 

“We’ll just tether the worthless things in the 
shade and get them out of the way,” I replied. He 
smiled and understood. Down in his heart he was 
fond of animals. 

I had a short, thick, laughing peon named Felix, 
help with the oxen and scraper. When the team got 
stuck, which was not infrequently, Felix would seize 
the loaded scraper and with a dexterous jerk lift it 
free from any impediment. I have not seen many 
men who could lift more weight with their shoul¬ 
ders. 

I noticed one of the men limping as he went about 
his work. Upon investigation I found that one of his 
great toes was bound up in the frayed and unclean re¬ 
mains of the leaf of some jungle plant. 

“Just a little cut,” he answered when I had the 
interpreter—who now styled himself my secretary— 
inquire the nature of his trouble. It needed no prac¬ 
ticed eye, however, to understand that he was suffer¬ 
ing from a painful infection. 


MACHETE 


21 


“Why doesn’t he go to a doctor and get fixed up?” 
I asked Rickets. 

“Doctor?” he questioned, surprised. “Why, Boss, 
the nearest regular doctor is in Port of Mexico a 
hundred miles away, and a man earning less than 
two pesos a day has no time or money to go there 
just to have a little cut fixed.” 

I knew there was a small drug store in Santa 
Lucrecia, operated by a Japanese with some medical 
experience, but even this would be more than the 
man could afford. He was a good man, one of my 
best, but his condition made him almost valueless as 
a workman. There was nothing very serious the mat¬ 
ter with him and I felt that some simple way of re¬ 
lieving the inflammation and a clean bandage would 
go a long way toward once more making him effec¬ 
tive. With this in mind, I had Rickets ask him to 
let me try and fix his foot. 

“It’s nothing,” he replied with a blank look and 
went on struggling to get about. 

“These people don’t like outsiders giving them 
medicine or fooling with their cuts,” Rickets advised 
pointedly. The next day the man was worse. His 
foot was much more swollen and he was suffering 
much more pain. He couldn’t work. It was almost 
impossible for him to move from one place to 
another. Though he was nothing but a hindrance in 
his present condition I did not have the heart to send 
him home, and cause him to lose his small wages. 

“I feel sure that a little attention will save that 
fellow lots of suffering,” I suggested to Rickets. 


22 


MACHETE 


“Well, you see it’s like this, Boss,” he replied, 
“These people have lived in the bush for so long, 
with no medicine but the jungle leaves and no doc¬ 
tors but the older people of their villages, that they 
just don’t trust no outsider.” 

The man’s pain was making him desperate, and 
if one is desperate, what matters custom or tradition 
or prejudice? When Rickets repeated my suggestion 
to him, he reluctantly agreed to come to my house 
during lunch hour and see what I could do to help 
him. When the noon bell rang, he limped painfully 
along after me and when we reached my house I 
opened the door and motioned for him to enter. He 
hesitated and politely took off his hat. Evidently he 
was not used to being asked to enter the homes of 
white men. 

“Come in,” I invited in English, taking his arm 
in a reassuring manner. Timorously he entered and 
accepted my best chair and spit on the floor. I felt 
that my efforts to make him feel at home had been 
successful. Opening a large elephant ear which 
formed the covering to his lunch, he started eating. 
I was sure he felt at ease. I removed the worn-out 
pus-covered leaf that partially concealed his wound 
and exposed a painful infection. Next I washed the 
affected area with warm water and soap and then, 
preparing a basin of cold salt water, had him soak 
his foot while he ate his lunch. I knew that salt was 
something of a sterilizer and I believed that cold 
water would tend to lessen the inflammation. I 


MACHETE 


23 


dressed the wound with a little vaseline and bound it 
up in a clean bandage. 

That afternoon he limped very little and at his 
own request the treatment was repeated before he 
went home for the night. Next day he was much 
better and a new bond of friendship existed between 
us. 

A week later a factory mechanic cut his hand and 
came to me to fix it. Unconsciously I was acquiring 
a reputation. When I entered the dining room for 
dinner, Sutton rubbed his eyes as if to clear his vision. 

“It can’t be! No, it ain’t! Gosh, it can’t be!” he 
exclaimed, rubbing his eyes again. “It is! Yes, it’s 
him,” he looked at me searchingly, “Yes, it’s him!” 
he repeated emphatically. Rising, he bowed with ag¬ 
gravated formality. “Good evening, doctor,” he 
greeted. “At first sight I confused you with one of 
our mule drivers—my eyes are none too good and 
you do look like someone we imported for that pur¬ 
pose.” Turning to the half dozen men who lounged 
at the dinner table he cleared his throat in mock 
nervousness, “Gentlemen” he started, as if he were 
about to make a speech, “it is my honor and pleas¬ 
ure to introduce to you the only amateur physician in 
captivity. Let’s give the doc a great big hand!” 

And in lieu of a regularly constituted physician, I 
became recognized as such by the people of the plan¬ 
tation. 


CHAPTER III 


Established as “Medico” to the Bush 
Monkeys 

Though I was being asked with increasing fre¬ 
quency to render trivial medical assistance, my first 
real adventure as an amateur physician happened 
after I had been at the plantation about a month. 
In the middle of an afternoon made listless by a 
withering sun, a grime-covered mechanic’s helper 
named Augustine, came to where I was working. His 
left hand was bound up in a blood-soaked handker¬ 
chief and he was holding it across his chest. Speaking 
in a quiet voice he told me that he had cut his hand 
and asked if I could fix it. From his unruffled manner 
I concluded that his injury was nothing more serious 
than a painful cut and readily agreed to do my best 
to help him. When we arrived at my house I removed 
the gory bandanna. The disclosure made me shiver. 
The powerful breakspring of a plantation locomotive 
had snapped back and severed his index-finger as 
cleanly as an axe could have done it. Only a stump, 
spurting small jets of blood, remained. The realiza¬ 
tion of my own responsibility was completely discon¬ 
certing. I had known of a strong effective man being 
transformed into a helpless cripple by a bad infection. 
Augustine held up his hand and smiled—smiled 
trustfully at me. Regretfully I recalled the day that 
I had helped the man with the infected foot. I re¬ 
membered that I had once heard a doctor describe a 
24 


The Hospital 


The “Doctor” 


The Steward 
and Secretary 


The Ambulance, 
and a good one, too 
















































. 






















































MACHETE 


25 


tourniquet and say that if it was applied between 
the wound and the heart it would stop bleeding. 

With some cord I improvised a tourniquet and 
applied it to what remained of the finger. The bleed¬ 
ing stopped. I drew up a chair for Augustine and 
sent a passing workman for Bill Gray. Bill was the 
assistant engineer and my immediate boss. With Bill’s 
help and a bottle of alcohol I arrested the hemorrhage 
and dressed the stump. When I applied dabs of 
cotton saturated in raw alcohol to stop the bleeding, 
Augustine gritted his teeth. His fine eyes blazed, but 
he kept on smiling. The sight of blood made Bill 
feel faint but he helped until everything was finished. 
Then he went home and collapsed. I watched Augus¬ 
tine closely, taking his temperature several times a 
day. No infection occurred. Two months after the 
accident he returned to work with what remained of 
his finger healed and sound. I never felt disgusted 
afterward when during one of his frequent visits he 
spit on my floor. I shall always remember him and 
I hope that sometimes when he looks at the stump 
of his finger he will be reminded pleasantly of me. 
My success in taking care of Augustine established 
my reputation and I soon found my entire time from 
the close of the work day till supper, taken up with 
medical aid. I sent to Mexico City for a large order 
of drugs. 

Among my patients was a middle-aged peon, who 
had recently arrived at the plantation. He was an 
inveterate conversationalist. Words gushed from his 
mouth in a continuous succession of sounds which 


26 


MACHETE 


affected me something like a fourth of July cele¬ 
bration, they so resembled exploding fire-crackers. 
Other than their enlivening effect they conveyed 
no intelligence, as I never could understand a thing 
he said. One day he would hold his head and moan. 
The next day it would be his knee or his hand. He 
seemed to be suffering from a wandering pain. From 
a casual visitor he became a regular pest. One after¬ 
noon upon returning from work, I found a particu¬ 
larly large gathering awaiting my ministrations. As 
I entered my yard the pest rushed up, pressing close 
and preventing me from giving attention to men I 
felt I could benefit. This time he held his stomach 
tenderly and moaned. I tried to convey the idea that 
I had exhausted my small information in an effort 
to help him. He regarded me with woeful eyes and 
and kept on moaning piteously. 

“Ai Dios” he wailed, “Ai Dios” He simply re¬ 
fused to be placated by words. In desperation I led 
him within my house, poured out half a large 
tumbler of sticky castor oil, and gave it to him to 
drink. He raised the shining glass to his lips and 
drank as if he enjoyed it. Bowing low he wiped his 
mouth with the back of his hand, muttered an appre¬ 
ciation and left. I looked thankfully at his receding 
figure shuffling down the path. I did not expect to 
see him again—not ever again. I was surprised there¬ 
fore, next afternoon when I returned from work, to 
see him sitting in his accustomed place on my steps. 
Seated next him was a strange peon. The two were 
talking in a low-toned serious manner. Back of them 


MACHETE 


27 


sat a grave-eyed woman and two children. All were 
dressed in clean, fresh clothing and the children had 
been scrubbed until they literally shone. Something 
indefinable suggested a moment of supreme impor¬ 
tance. My patient rose and thoughtfully adjusted his 
machete . I wondered if it was a local custom to get 
dressed up to commit murder. With manifest dignity 
he approached, removed his sombrero , bowed and 
exclaimed in the first understandable Spanish I had 
ever heard him pronounce. 

“Sir, I thank you 5 you are a great doctor; for the 
first time in years I am well; entirely, gloriously 
well.” Further words failed and he grew tearful. 
The occasion seemed too solemn to defile with mere 
adjectives. He clasped me in his arms. I felt that he 
might be going to kiss me and I was weak and power¬ 
less to resist. He vowed that he would never leave 
the plantation so long as I remained. 

“Sir,” he explained, “this lady is my wife; this 
gentleman my best friend and these, my two little 
children. Won’t you, out of the kindness of your 
great heart, give each one of them some of your 
wonderful medicine?” It was a pleasure to comply 
generously. True to his word, he remained at the 
plantation while I was there, my faithful friend to 
the end. 

Of such fabrics are reputations sometimes formed. 

The noon bell had just rung. I looked at my 
watch and found that the chief’s chronometer had 
gained ten minutes during the night. The day be¬ 
fore it had lost. He must have oiled it in the evening 


28 


MACHETE 


for when freshly lubricated the machinery of his 
cigar store product functioned better and we worked 
shorter hours. My clothing was saturated. Sweat 
trickled down my arms and dripped from the ends of 
my fingers. A tiny stream cascaded in drops from 
my nose. The morning had been particularly hot 
and busy. I was on the point of starting for my house 
when a desolate peon approached. His clothes were 
mere ribbons, partially held together by scattered 
patches. The straw sombrero he held in his hands, 
respectfully, was tattered beyond any real usefulness. 

“Could the kind Senor Doctor spare the few min¬ 
utes necessary to visit my house?” he requested. His 
little daughter was very sick. For eight days she had 
suffered with fever. For months she had not been 
well. He led the way to his palm-thatched hut, 
which was as clean as such a structure could possibly 
be. The few household implements were shining and 
in ordered arrangement on a neat shelf over the 
earth-topped cooking-table. The earthen floor had 
been swept clean, the makeshift table freshly 
scrubbed. In a corner on a straw sleeping mat lay a 
child of about seven, partially covered by a well- 
worn sheet. She was pitifully gaunt. Every bone in 
her emaciated little body semed visible. She paid no 
heed whatever when I spoke. Her sunken eyes ap¬ 
peared to vision beyond earthly things. She burned 
with a high fever and her pulse fluttered and was 
irregular. A feeling of helplessness—utter and entire 
helplessness and total dejection overcame me. What 
could I, with no training and very limited experience 


MACHETE 


29 


hope to do that would keep life in a little body that 
was almost completely wasted? With the first glance I 
made up my mind to send the child to the doctor in 
Port of Mexico. This seemed the only thing I could 
do, though I felt she would never survive the hun¬ 
dred miles of blistering sun. I turned to tell the par¬ 
ents. There was something soft, ardent, hopeful in 
the look of the mother. The father was eager. Some¬ 
how that half-baffled quality which seems to belong 
to the peon make-up was absent. They looked at me 
appealingly—hopefully. This poor barefooted moth¬ 
er and father believed that because I had patched 
up a few cuts I could save their desperately sick 
child from death. They trusted in me. I realized that 
under the circumstances if I sent the child to the 
doctor and she died on the way, in the view of these 
primitive people I would be guilty of something 
unforgivable. The seriousness of the situation struck 
me. I looked at the child again in a despairing effort to 
discover some suggestion of a way to help her. With 
all her gauntness her little abdomen was so distended 
that it looked like part of a small balloon. I recalled 
that once at a theatre with a friend and his wife I 
had witnessed a moving picture of some South Sea 
Island natives. During the course of the picture my 
friend’s wife had exclaimed: 

“How pitiful! All those babies are infected with 
intestinal parasites.” 

“How can you tell?” I had inquired. 

“Look at their abdomens. See how swollen and 
distended they are,” she had replied. 


30 


MACHETE 


After a year in Tehuantepec I concluded that though 
she was not a biologist she certainly had ideas. Ex¬ 
plaining that I would be back later with medicine, 
I left to find a bottle of vermifuge, if such a thing 
existed on the plantation. Just what I would do in 
case I could not find the proper medicine indicated 
by my cursory diagnosis I was too nervous even to 
worry about. A complete canvass failed to reveal any¬ 
thing of the sort on the place. 

“Why don’t you try the drug store in Santa Lucre- 
cia?” suggested Bill when I went to him with the 
problem. Bill never failed with a helpful suggestion. 
Late that evening the launch captain hurried to bring 
me two bottles of medicine he had purchased for me 
in Santa Lucrecia. The child was still alive when I 
reached the hut. The only illumination was from a 
spluttering, smoky, oil torch which caused ominous 
dark figures to dance weird dances on the floor and 
walls. From the trees the voices of night birds called 
solemn messages, as I administered the medicine, in 
a desperate attempt to save a precious life. I did not 
sleep well that night. The fear that I might not have 
guessed correctly proved very troubling. At daylight 
when I went to see her she was sleeping and the indi¬ 
cations were that I had chosen the correct medicine. 
I realized that in her weakened condition the usual 
measures of combating a fever would be impossible 
so I made poultices of bread, milk and chopped onions 
and applied them to the soles of her feet. 

I understood that the soles of the feet contained 
more pores than any other equal area of the human 


MACHETE 


31 


body and I knew bread and milk poultices would ab¬ 
sorb inflammation. My mother had often put them 
on my chest when I had a cold as a child. Next day 
she had less fever. In a few days with the same 
treatment she had none. I gave her three tablespoons 
full of boiled milk every hour during the day, till 
her temperature was once more normal, and then 
added a very soft boiled egg in the morning and 
another in the middle of the day. After the first week 
I included a small bowl of broth at noon and later a 
few slices of buttered toast. Within two weeks she 
was sitting up and smiling and enjoying a light diet. 
I gave her small though regular doses of quinine 
from the time she sat up, for about two weeks. I 
wanted to make sure of eliminating the fever. In a 
month she was playing about happily, still quite thin 
but gaining steadily. To every appearance she was 
entirely well. When a spark of animation first lighted 
ber dull, hopeless eyes—when she smiled—the hut 
in the jungle seemed hallowed—hallowed and glori¬ 
ous, with a glory only dimly comprehensible. 


CHAPTER IV 

A Black Colossus of the Bush 

“Doc!” I rolled over, turning my back to the door. 
It was Sunday morning and day was just breaking. 
The past week had been scorching and I had no in¬ 
tention of being wrenched from bed the one morning 
it was possible to sleep. 

“Doc!” This time louder. 

“What the ...” I started, disgruntled, turning 
and rubbing my eyes. I did not finish. Mere words 
paled, for there framed in the open doorway, re¬ 
vealed by the weird half-light of early dawn stood 
a black colossus, a creature from a bygone age. His 
open shirt exposed the great muscular neck of a 
superman. Giant’s arms hung from his huge sloping 
shoulders, ending in massive iron fists. Faded trous¬ 
ers, rolled half way to his knees, uncovered thick 
ankles and wide stubby feet. I blinked and rubbed 
my eyes again. I wondered if I could be dreaming. 
Perceiving my dilemma he laughed silently, as if 
realizing his omnipotence, and leered, baring two 
rows of solid tobacco-stained teeth. 

“What the . . . what do you want?” I grumbled. 

Slowly he doffed his battered hat. The low reced¬ 
ing forehead suggested a degenerate. Great muscles 
rippled as he moved. 

“Doc,” he informed, in the slow soft drawl of the 
West-Indian negro, “Pm Watson”—he seemed to 
32 


MACHETE 


33 


take it for granted that I should know who Watson 
was—“and I got a hurting corn. I can’t wear no 
shoes, it’s that bad.” 

As a boy I had been interested in chiropody. I 
had wanted to be a chiropodist. The vision of a white 
coated man skillfully wielding a shining excavator 
while allaying the apprehension of a timorous pa¬ 
tient with soothing conversation had twinkled in my 
imagination like a happy light. But my mother— 
horrors, my sister—horrors of horrors! The remem¬ 
brance of a certain occasion when I was approaching 
years of discretion still affects me as hearing the 
Semper Fidelis affects a retired marine. No. Mother 
would positively not have her son a chiropodist. I 
have never fully understood her pronounced dislike 
to this means of earning a living. 

Though I was sleepy—very sleepy, the prospect 
and the strange paleolithic visitor proved too allur¬ 
ing. 

I got up, unlatched the screen and asked my early 
morning caller to come in. 

The giant negro entered. He moved to a chair, 
seated himself without an invitation and spit on the 
floor. I was beginning to imagine that this last action 
constituted a sort of necessary salutation, locally. 
Huge, lithe, powerful, his every move indicated 
that perfect co-ordination between mind and muscle 
which is essentially part of a jungle animal. 

I explained that I was not a doctor and had no 
instruments and very little information to work with. 

“That’s all right, Doc,” he consoled easily, “any- 


34 - 


MACHETE 


one who can save the life of an almost dead kid can 
whittle corns for me.” 

A safety razor blade, some iodine and a pair of 
hair tweezers served the purpose and I commenced. 
While I worked he talked. 

“This the first time you been in the bush, Doc?” 
he drawled. He evidently took my reply for granted 
for he did not pause. “I been here fourteen years. 
Come here from Jamaica. Pm British and Britain is 
the biggest nation in this old world.” There was no 
denying his pride in his country. “I know every foot 
of land around here, I do. In the De la Huerta revo¬ 
lution I was a captain in the Rebel army, I was, and 
I got papers to prove it. If my side had only won,” 
he looked greedily through the doorway. “If my 
side had only won,” he repeated, “I’d have made a 
pile of money, Doc—a whole pile of money.” His 
eyes grew large with the memory. 

“It was me,” he tapped his breast significantly, 
“me, who tricked the Federals into the ambush down 
by Port of Mexico when the Rebels held the town. 
Of course my general got the credit, but it was me 
who figured it out.” His head raised perceptibly, as 
if conscious of his intellectual superiority. “We got 
word that about three hundred Yaquis was coming 
up near Vera Cruz to take the port and all the sup¬ 
plies we had collected there. From their location we 
knew there was only one way they could come, and 
that was down the beach. We knew they had spies 
watching every move we made, so we just let on as 
if we knew nothing and went about our business. 


MACHETE 


35 


“After dark we got about twenty of our most 
trusted men and had them leave by various routes 
in twos and threes so the spies would not be so apt 
to notice. When we were all together we went to a 
place on the beach about four or five miles out that 
the General and me had agreed was the best place 
and dug trenches along the top of a low sand hill 
which run along with the beach. 

“The next morning the General took our gunboat 
and a few men and started up the river as if he was 
going to collect supplies. This looked all nice and 
natural to the spies. We had it fixed for a messen¬ 
ger to come running into town a little after noon, 
when everyone could see him, and for me to start 
double-timing up the railroad with all the men. This 
would give the idea that I had got orders to move 
out and meet the enemy which was coming by train. 
Outside of town we met the General who had left 
the gunboat in the river. Taking a hidden bush trail 
we marched across to our trenches. Just as we got 
nicely settled they come into view loafing along down 
the beach taking it easy and all unconcerned, figuring 
on getting to the Port and into position about dusk. 
They had an old gas boat with a little cannon on the 
front of it, along with them, swinging down outside 
the line of breakers, which they figured on bombard¬ 
ing the town with. We let their advance guard pass. 
They felt mighty strong, having more than twice the 
number of men we did and were not taking all the 
precautions they could. When their main body got 


36 


MACHETE 


even with us the General give the order to fire and 
our men opened up.” 

His eyes glimmered reminiscently and he threw 
back his head and laughed. 

“Lord, they was surprised. If you could have seen 
the look on their faces. My God, it was funny, Doc, 
seeing them standing there wondering while we shot 
them all to pieces. I and another fellow were shoot¬ 
ing at the boat. They couldn’t fire the cannon because 
as fast as they stood men up to work it we knocked 
them down. Some tried getting into the water and 
swimming out to the boat but the sharks got them, 
if we missed. Their officers tried getting them to¬ 
gether to charge us but we busted up their forma¬ 
tions quicker than they could get them started. Lord, 
the blood and the squawks of them that was hit and 
not dead yet! 

“It was getting dark. The few of them left were 
running up the beach and scattering in the bush. The 
gas boat was speeding out to sea. We could have got 
those that were running up the beach, but we didn’t 
want to get our crowd all separated. The sand was 
littered with dead and wounded. We didn’t have any 
place to keep wounded prisoners, or medicine or time 
to take care of them, so the General turned our bunch 
loose with their machetes. The thuds of the machetes 
as they struck and the squawks!” he leered fiendishly 
and laughed. “My God! It looked like a Saturday 
meat-killing, only there was much more to it. As we 
were collecting the rifles and ammunition that were 
strewn about, a wounded man we thought was dead, 


MACHETE 


37 


shot and killed our General. What we did to him— 
say! What life he had sure cost him lots of suffering. 
He died too quick, but we didn’t quit just because 
he was dead. We killed over two hundred and fifty 
of them. Less than fifty got away and we did not 
take prisoners. All we lost including our General was 
a dozen.” He gazed reminiscently at nothing. “No, 
sir,” he said emphatically, “they can’t never get the 
best of a real smart man, not these bush monkeys.” 

He smiled arrogantly and continued. 

“One of them got mad at me for taking his woman. 
He said something to me about it so I caught hold 
of him and beat him just as you would a mean child. 
My Lord, he was mad, but he didn’t want no more 
beating, so he quit talking. That night he left town. 
A fellow says to me, ‘Some time that monkey’s going 
to come back and kill you. These people never for¬ 
get ! ’ About six months after I learned he was hang¬ 
ing around a little place a few miles away. I was 
living in a palm house. When night time come I 
made the woman sleep next to the wall and I slept in 
the center on the floor. I tied my dog to a stake along 
side me. A few nights later the dog waked me up 
growling. I made him keep quiet and lay there listen¬ 
ing. Pretty soon I heard a noise outside the wall 
where the woman was sleeping. I got up and sneaked 
around the corner of the house. There I saw him 
bendin’ over trying to hear me breathing. He had his 
machete in his hand, intending to stick it through the 
thatch wall and cut my throat as soon as he spotted 
me. I made a jump and landed on top of him. Hold- 


38 


MACHETE 


ing his machete arm by the wrist, with one hand, I 
choked him with the other and beat the wind out of 
him with my knee. Pretty soon he give up and let go 
of the machete. I give him a punch in the side of the 
head and he lay there like a log. 

“At first I thought I would twist his head off the 
same as you do a chicken’s, but the machete lying on 
the ground give me another idea. I picked him up 
and stood him on his feet and split his god-damned 
head clean down to the nose with his own machete” 

The giant’s eyes glittered malignantly. 

“As he was laying there dying, I says to him, 
‘That’s what you get for fooling with Watson!’ and 
I give him another chop in the neck for luck.” He 
paused and guffawed mirthlessly. “I still got the 
machete. He had sharpened it up like a razor to get 
me with.” 

He laughed again. 

“No, sir! They don’t do no fooling with Watson. 
Lots of them hate me. Maybe sometime some of 
them will get me. When they do, if they will only 
stand in front and come close enough, I will get two 
of them—two more of them.” He leered again and 
bared his yellow fangs. “Yes, sir!” he said with em¬ 
phasis, “two more of them!” 

Thus I came to know Watson, to learn, first hand, 
the details of a tropical slaying party, and to chisel a 
corn from the toe of a stone-age man with the busi¬ 
ness part of a modern safety-razor. 


CHAPTER V 

“Dios! What Foolishness Is Marriage” 

I was about to start for work when Watson ar¬ 
rived. His wide feet were covered by well-worn 
shoes, full of small perforating cuts. He walked 
easily, so I concluded that my efforts of the day be¬ 
fore had been successful. 

“Feeling fine, Doc. No more pain,” he smiled 
easily in greeting. By his side walked one of our 
soldier guards who appeared like a dwarf in compari¬ 
son with his huge bulk. 

“This poor boy’s a friend of mine, so I brought 
him along to have you fix him up,” he explained 
with something of condescension in his manner. 

“At Dios” moaned the soldier, looking at me an- 
ticipatively and holding one hand pressed against the 
side of his face, which was swollen. 

“Yes,” continued the giant, “there ain’t no use suf¬ 
fering when there’s some one around who can fix you 
up proper.” I began to be impressed with the idea 
that there are times when reputation can be some¬ 
thing besides a reward. 

“What’s the matter with him?” I asked. 

“He’s got a toothache,” replied the negro, evident¬ 
ly surprised that I did not know the trouble at a 
glance. “All he wants you to do is to pull the tooth.” 

Having had a tragic experience with part of a tooth 
which refused to be pulled, the request caused creepy 
39 


40 


MACHETE 


sensations to race up and down my spine. I felt for¬ 
tunate that I had no forceps and could therefore re¬ 
fuse for a most valid reason. 

“There ain’t nothing to pulling a tooth,” the giant 
negro protested. “All you have to do is grab hold 
with something and give a jerk. Wouldn’t be nothing 
for you, with what you know.” 

“But I have no forceps,” I explained again. 

The negro’s brow wrinkled. Then a lighter ex¬ 
pression came. 

“The carpenter’ll lend you a pair,” he suggested. 

But the thought made we wince and I flatly re¬ 
fused to bother the carpenter. 

Just inside the door on my table lay a small pair 
of artery forceps which I had placed there for con¬ 
venience in case of emergency. 

“How about those?” intimated the negro, point¬ 
ing to the artery forceps. 

“Those are for stopping bleeding and not for pull¬ 
ing teeth,” I told him. 

“Ai Nombre de Dios ” moaned the soldier. He was 
evidently suffering a lot, so I offered to give him 
some toothache drops to ease his pain. 

“Give me the damn things and I’ll pull his tooth,” 
drawled Watson roughly. There was something of 
cruel pleasure at the opportunity of causing a fellow 
human being pain in the way he spoke. 

“No, you won’t!” I answered firmly, the vision of 
a man being hacked to death before me. 

“Ai Nombre de Dios y doctor Mio y won’t you hurry 
and do something?” pleaded the soldier. 


MACHETE 


41 


“Go ahead, Doc, let me pull his tooth,” tormented 
Watson. 

“Nothing doing,” I answered. “These toothache 
drops will ease ...” 

“Please, please, doctor mio> lend me the pincers 
and I will pull the tooth myself! ” the soldier inter¬ 
rupted me. 

I readily acceded to this, as I expected that with 
his first pull at the sore tooth he would promptly 
change his mind and I could induce him to go to 
the dentist in Port of Mexico. 

I handed him the forceps and he took a careful, 
firm grip upon the offending member and jerked. 
The little forceps slipped. He calmly cleared his 
mouth of the accumulated blood and took another 
grip. This time the tooth came. Smiling, he asked me 
for a glass of water. 

I have had a profound respect for the physical 
courage of Mexican soldiers ever since. The giant 
negro laughed ironically. 

“Hell, Doc! It wouldn’t have been nothing for 
a man to do that knows as much as you do,” he as¬ 
sured me. 

As the queer pair left my house, Sutton passed 
on his way to work. 

“Who’s the black mastiff?” he asked when I met 
him a short time later. 

He’s sort of a local cosmopolitan who answers to 
the name of Watson,” I replied, telling him the story 
the negro had told me the day before. 

“He sure looks the part. I bet mothers hereabouts 


42 


MACHETE 


tell their naughty children that Watson’s going to get 
them if they aren’t good,” he commented. 

The next morning at dawn, an old woman arrived 
to have a tooth pulled. Argument was of no avail. I 
helped the soldier, why wouldn’t I do as much for an 
old peon woman? 

“Ai, Don Carlos,” she groaned, wiggling a very 
loose tooth at me. 

“I can’t bite my tortillas! I can’t chew any food! 
All I can eat is just soup, and I hate soup! Madre 
Santo Maria! You don’t know the pain this causes 
me. In the name of all the good saints, won’t you 
please pull the tooth and make the remaining years 
of a poor old woman worth living?” 

The tooth was very loose. I think I could easily 
have made the extraction with my fingers. First se¬ 
curing the old woman’s promise that she would not 
tell any of her friends—I did not wish to add dentis¬ 
try to my other duties—I swabbed the gum with al¬ 
cohol, took a firm grip with the artery forceps, shut 
my eyes and gave a mighty jerk. She informed me 
that there was almost no pain. I was glad that one 
of us did not suffer. 

When I returned at noon there were five people 
waiting, each one of whom wished me to pull a tooth. 
My morning visitor had lost no time in telling all her 
friends. I had a terrible struggle persuading them 
that I was not a dentist. 

That afternoon Concha called, asking that I extract 
a perfectly sound tooth. News travels quickly in 
the jungle. 


MACHETE 


43 


“Please, Don Carlos, please, it is such a simple 
thing I ask,” she pleaded, when I flatly refused. She 
wished the sound tooth removed so that a new shiny 
gold one could be put in its place. Gold teeth are 
still the rage in Tehuantepec. An official of the rail¬ 
road had all his uppers and lowers—all visible— 
made of fourteen carat with a cute twinkly little dia¬ 
mond set in the middle of the uppers. He was more 
than a popular official—he was a soul-stirring stan¬ 
dard, and Concha was ambitious. When I refused a 
second time she became dejected and looked rather 
darkly at me. I realized that no amount of explaining 
could fully make her understand my point of view, 
and I hated to offend her. She was one of our most 
popular and prominent dowagers and her opinions 
carried weight. Though she had never been married 
she was the mother of seven children, each by a 
different father. There were the bloods of several 
different races represented in her brood, so we chris¬ 
tened her “League of Nations”—much to her 
amusement. Her oldest child was Juana, a pretty 
girl of about seventeen. She used to bring Juana after 
medicine upon the slightest excuse, sometimes even 
going so far as to disregard entirely the accepted 
rules of proper conduct, and send her alone. Now 
she sat looking disappointedly through the open win¬ 
dow. 

“You have such lovely white teeth, so much more 
beautiful than any gold that was ever mined, 
Concha,” I began in an effort at conciliation. Her 


44- 


MACHETE 


glance shifted and she smiled. Concha was no differ¬ 
ent from women all over the world. 

“Who cooks for you, Don Carlos?” she asked, 
changing the subject. The question was a strange one, 
as I felt sure she knew that I took my meals with 
the rest of the white men at the company boarding 
house. 

“Why, the Chinaman Louis, of course. You know 
I take my meals at the company boarding house.” 

“You can’t sleep with that old white-haired buz¬ 
zard ! ” she laughed. “Why don’t you keep house and 
have some one cook for you here?” She glanced 
quizzically at me. “Why don’t you have Juana cook 
for you?” I assured her that I was perfectly satis¬ 
fied and had no intention of keeping house. She 
seemed puzzled; then she laughed. 

“Who is it?” she questioned. “Every man has to 
have a woman and being a medico you are certainly 
not foolish enough to take a chance with any of those 
in Santa Lucrecia.” She looked thoughtfully at me. 
“Juana is a good girl,” she suggested without shifting 
her eyes. “I have kept her so because I want her to 
have a good man and good men want clean women. 
She could marry. Several men want to marry her, 
Don Carlos. But she is a peon girl and I would rather 
have her live with one of the type who would not 
marry her than spend her life in thankless drudgery 
with one of the type that would. Marriage is only 
a form. If a man and woman are happy together they 
will live together in happiness. If they are unhappy 
why complicate the situation with laws that force 


MACHETE 


45 


them to continue in unhappiness?” She rubbed her 
eyes with her toil-gnarled hands as if to enable her 
to vision through the veil of years. 

“Dios! What foolishness is marriage!” she ex¬ 
claimed. “What women want is love—love and kind¬ 
ness and tenderness and not to be treated like brutes. 
You North Americans treat your women better. 
Juana’s father was a countryman of yours,” she said, 
reverently. "At mi corazon y what a cab alter o! He was 
kind and generous and thoughtful. When I was just 
a young girl he bought me from my mother. We 
were very happy together and when Juana was born 
he was very pleased. He got the fever and had to 
go back to your country but he sent me money every 
month till Juana could read and write. He got mar¬ 
ried and could not come back to Tehuantepec, so I got 
another man. If he ever came back here and wanted 
me, I would go to him. If he didn’t, I would leave. 
I love him too much ever to cause him unhappiness. 
I bore him a child and bearing a child for the man 
she loves is the greatest happiness that comes to an 
honest woman.” Her eyes were dark with mysterious 
shadows. “At mi corazon” she sighed. “We Mexi¬ 
cans are not so rich as people of other races, but we 
know how to live and how to die, too, Don Carlos! ” 

This was my first introduction to a custom which 
is prevalent among the poorer natives of Tehuante¬ 
pec. It’s not an entirely strange custom to other parts 
of the world—this placing of a loved daughter’s 
future where she will have material advantage and 
kindness, only in other places it is perhaps a little less 


46 


MACHETE 


crude. But the fundamental animations remain the 
same. 

Later, one glorious night when the soft flood-light 
of a round tropical moon had transformed the plan¬ 
tation into a fairy-land, she brought Juana to where 
I stood enjoying a fresh chicken garnacha and a bot¬ 
tle of cool beer, while watching the peons dance in 
the moonlight. Juana was all dolled up in a long 
dark, lace-bordered skirt and a flaming crimson waist, 
with bright yellow embroidery that is the festive 
dress of the Zapotecan woman. A fresh white hya¬ 
cinth was tucked behind one ear, its fragrance entire¬ 
ly consumed by the odor of synthetic perfume. 

“Aren’t you going to dance?” she asked. She was 
much amused when I told her that I was far too fat. 

“Ai Don Carlos , you are too lazy, not too fat!” 
she laughed. “See! Don Jose is much fatter than you 
and he dances every night. 

“What a break, being the Doc gets you! ” exclaimed 
Sutton, who was standing near. “And to think that 
when they even tease, you have the guts to turn 
them down. Boy! And how! What’s the matter? 
Don’t you have no appreciation for it?” And he went 
off to dance with Juana. 

The head of the band—who was also the school¬ 
master—invited me to do a Charleston—a true 
American dance. He seemed to think that my reason 
for not taking an active part was the lack of my na¬ 
tive dances. He assured me that his organization 
would render special music, but among my accom¬ 
plishments the Charleston was not included. 


MACHETE 


47 


“Wait till you hear the music!” he persisted en¬ 
thusiastically, turning to the other two musicians of 
the orchestra. He held up his hand for attention and 
sounded a careful preliminary toot on his mouth 
organ. The cracked accordion groaned a note which 
was evidently a key. The guitar player strummed a 
harmonious chord. Suddenly he lowered his hand 
and the band started playing The leader looked at 
me proudly, over the top of his harmonica. Some¬ 
thing about the tune seemd familiar. Finally I recog¬ 
nized the popular strains of “Yes, We Have no Ban¬ 
anas!” The music master motioned for me to com¬ 
mence. 

I felt actually sorry that I could only nod in a 
negative manner. Instead, a particularly supple girl 
was finally induced to give a sinuous, twisting exhi¬ 
bition, very unlike the graceful native dance. This 
produced prolonged applause and the girl courteous¬ 
ly danced again. 

“Ain’t so bad, girlie, ain’t so bad. Just keep the 
left knee from being too volatile. I’ll use my influ¬ 
ence with a friend all right,” Sutton sparkled, en¬ 
thusiastically. 

“I say! You might call that a naval engagement, 
what?” commented an assistant engineer, recently ar¬ 
rived from England. 

Across the space used for dancing a group laughed 
at the ribald jests of Watson. Underneath his bulg¬ 
ing biceps gleamed the butt of a pistol suspended by 
a shoulder holster. 

“That’s a brave guy all right, that mastiff,” Sut- 


48 


MACHETE 


ton sneered. “If he made his way by the way he’s 
made he ought to be president or heavyweight champ 
or something, but as it is he’s just a damn noisy coon, 
for besides being black, he’s yellow. If not, why the 
rod?” 

“It might be because he’s such a good target him¬ 
self or because he likes nice things,” I ventured. 

“S-u-r-e,” he strung the word out significantly, 
“and I’m an oyster!” 

I remained late at the party discussing who won 
the World War and drinking beer with the new as¬ 
sistant. When he asked me to sing the North Ameri¬ 
can folk-song which depicts the transportation sys¬ 
tem and features that fearless old bounder, “Casey 
Jones,” I though it time to leave. 

More beer would have been superfluous. 

There is something indescribably fascinating about 
the full moon glowing over the jungle, something 
fascinating and vast, something redolent of languor 
and mystery, and I stood at my door admiring the 
beauty and listening to the calls of the night birds. 
As I lingered, engrossed, Juana strode silently from 
around the corner of my house—alone. 

“Good evening, Don Carlos, are you lonesome?” 
she greeted. When I asured her that I was not lone¬ 
some she giggled. “How much happier you would 
be if you had a woman!” 

“But I’m perfectly happy, Juana,” I started. 

“Your heart is half frozen, like your country!” 
she interrupted disgustedly. Later I learned that her 
mother had insisted upon her coming. 



Dona Maria 


The Field Foreman 


A Young Patriot 


Two Girl Friends 









MACHETE 


49 


The ethics of the Southern Mexican are very hard 
for a foreigner to understand. They have a most pro¬ 
found love for their children and respect for their race. 
They are very proud of their country. Yet marriage 
is not considered necessary to full respectability, at 
least by the poorer natives. An English couple, re¬ 
cently arrived, employed a respectable young native 
girl as a domestic. She proved very faithful and ex¬ 
tremely intelligent. They grew very attached to her 
and planned on taking her to England when they 
returned there for their vacation. When informed 
of their plans she became very enthusiastic. As time 
approached for their departure they became con¬ 
vinced that their protegee was going to become a 
mother. After discussing their conviction, they de¬ 
cided to question the girl. 

“Yes,” she replied frankly, entirely unconfused 
by their question. 

“But, my dear girl, why didn’t you tell us you 
were married? We had no idea that you even con¬ 
templated such a thing.” 

“I am not married!” she exclaimed, surprised by 
the fervor of her friends. 

“What! Not married?” gasped the English lady. 
“You poor child! Tell us who the man is so we can 
take it up with the authorities and see that this great 
wrong is righted.” 

“I don’t know who he is.” 

“Horrors! You mean to say that you don’t know 
who he is? Oh! I never was so shocked in all my life. 
I believed you were so decent. Why, I would ...” 


50 


MACHETE 


“I am decent—very decent!” the girl interrupted 
indignantly. “But as you know I went home to spend 
many Saturday nights. Often some of our relatives 
and friends came to visit. We are poor people, our 
house is very small, and at night we all sleep 
together on the floor, so how can I know?” 

Yet a married woman, or a woman living with a 
man, who deviates from the strictest fidelity to her 
mate, quickly forfeits her good name and the re¬ 
spect of her friends. 


CHAPTER VI 


Girls, Smugglers and Liquor in Port of 
Mexico 

Swarms of flying ants, an overcast sky and intense 
heat indicated that the rainy season was about to com¬ 
mence. As the rains transformed the fields into im¬ 
passable bogs we decided to discontinue our hurried 
preparations and put off grinding till the dry season. 
We cut our force to the smallest number of men 
with which it was possible to complete the work by 
next harvest time. Our Chief’s contract closed and 
he left for the States. Bill was made chief engineer 
and immediately started checking over the work of 
his predecessor. He wanted to be sure that everything 
was just as it should be. 

The rains started. Gently at first, then a regular 
daily deluge which roared and pounded on the corru¬ 
gated iron roofs like a freight train going through a 
tunnel. Sometimes three or four inches fell in twenty- 
four hours. The river quickly became a raging tor¬ 
rent and the country a mosquito-infested quagmire. 
Snakes and tarantulas, flooded from their accustomed 
haunts, became more numerous upon the paths and 
I saw my first Cola-de-hueso and the Central Ameri¬ 
can edition of the terrible Fer-de-lance, locally 
known as Sordo. 

One man was bitten in the arm by a venomous in¬ 
sect—we never knew to which variety it belonged for 
51 


52 


MACHETE 


the man was sleeping at the time. His arm swelled and 
he developed a high fever and suffered intense pain. 
He grew weak and his pulse became very irregular. 
A pronounced lump developed under his arm at the 
point where it joined his body. I saved his life by 
opening his arm at the spot where he was bitten and 
making long shallow lances above and below the in¬ 
cision. I kept these all open and covered his arm from 
the wrist to the shoulder with heavy cotton dressing, 
wet with a strong solution of permanganate of pot¬ 
ash, which I changed every three hours. In a few 
days he showed practically no temperature, and his 
pulse became more regular. The incisions developed 
a thin watery discharge which had to be pressed out 
thoroughly to clear. This I did twice a day, at the 
same time cleaning out the wounds thoroughly by 
syringing with permanganate of potash solution. In a 
week his fever was entirely gone, the swelling and 
the lump under his arm partially subsided and he 
seemed past any crisis. He suffered some pain for a 
month and for longer than that the discharge con¬ 
tinued. This slowly abated, the wounds closed and 
the full use of his arm returned. The discharge had 
no odor. Therefore I do not think that the venom 
was of the type which putrefies human tissue. 

Watson, who had been employed in the fields, 
came to pay me a farewell call. His big pistol hung 
securely underneath his great left arm. 

“Why do you carry the artillery under your arm 
and not in your clothes bag?” I asked. 

“To have it handy in case I need it, Doc,” he an- 


MACHETE 


53 


swered, nodding his head meaningly. “Ynu never can 
tell about these bush monkeys, and it’s much better 
to let them know that you got a gun mighty handy.” 
Watson believed in preparedness. 

“Good-bye, Doc,” he said. “I’ll be back soon as 
the rains quit, and if I get sick I’ll be back before 
that—providing I ain’t got no toothache!” he 
laughed. This was his standard joke and he enjoyed 
it very much. “That’s all right, Doc,” he consoled. 
“You can take care of me anytime—anytime—even 
if it is a toothache.” He eyed me so curiously that I 
wondered if it was entirely confidence in my ability 
to heal which prompted his endorsement. 

With so few of our workmen left, there were pro¬ 
portionately fewer sick people and I enjoyed a wel¬ 
come relief from much of the extra work in the 
steaming afternoons. 

Upon my return from work one afternoon I found 
no one wanting medical attention so I went at once 
to my shower to enjoy a cooling bath and to rub my 
tick bites with alcohol. Any white man in the Tehuan¬ 
tepec jungle is sure to accumulate armies of the 
torturers, though they trouble the natives very little. 
The afternoon was scorching. My body throbbed 
and itched from the ticks and I had no desire for 
company. From my bath room I heard some one 
come upon my porch and try the screen. When I 
looked through the bath-room’s open door, there was 
a stranger standing at the front doorway. 

Realizing that his presence was known, he smiled. 
“Are you too busy to fix a small cut?” he questioned, 


54- 


MACHETE 


iii answer to my greeting. His left wrist was bound 
in a gory bandanna which dropped blood. He would 
not enter till I insisted, saying that he did not want 
to get blood on the clean floor. He was one of our 
fuel contractor’s men and had walked three miles 
from the wood camp to reach the plantation. When 
I unwrapped it blood spurted from a gaping wound. 
In his effort to cut a flying bee in two with a sharp 
machete he had half severed his wrist. The wound 
was between the articular surfaces of the bones of 
the wrist and the forearm and had severed the ulnar 
artery. We had nothing to sew up the cut with. Our 
supply of such materials had been used up and we 
were waiting for a fresh consignment from Mexico 
City. The man was dangerously hurt. Something had 
to be done without delay. Once I had seen a stock- 
man save a horse from bleeding to death by searing 
a wound with a red hot iron. The memory was any¬ 
thing but comforting. My nostrils seemed again to 
be filled with the stench of burning flesh. Again, in 
memory, I heard the agonized screams of a terrified, 
tortured animal. Once more I visioned a heavy-fea¬ 
tured, sun-blackened man dry his eyes with the back 
of one grimy hand while stroking the trembling neck 
with the other, and I seemed to hear him as he mur¬ 
mured in a strained, unnatural voice. 

“It was hard, Whitie, old boy, god-damned hard! 
But Christ! I just couldn’t let you die!” 

The tight tourniquet was causing pain. The man 
was complaining and weakening. He had lost a lot 
of blood and there was no time to lose. For a moment 


MACHETE 


55 


I considered the treatment I had seen administered to 
the horse, but only for a moment. The thought was 
nauseating. He was a man—a fellow human being— 
and I could not bring myself to suggest such a course 
—even to save his life. Something else had to be 
thought of. I remembered hearing that cobwebs 
spread across the opening of a wound would cause 
the blood to coagulate and thereby stop bleeding. 
There were plenty of cobwebs but they all looked so 
dirty and the thought that a dangerous infection 
might cause a stiff wrist—a great handicap to a la¬ 
boring man—made their use very questionable. The 
daily rain had ceased and the later afternoon sun was 
streaming through my open window. It occurred to 
me that if I could just get something clean to dry 
across the mouth of the wound, in the sun, that I 
could arrest the hemorrhage and save an infection. 
Controlling the bleeding with the tourniquet, which 
I eased from time to time, I applied wisps of sterile 
cotton, till after a two-hour struggle, I succeeded— 
with the aid of the last of the sun—in drying a suf¬ 
ficient number of them across the mouth of the 
wound to stop the bleeding. I covered the dried sur¬ 
face and the whole wrist with a thick cotton dress¬ 
ing, bandaged tightly, and bound the forearm and 
hand firmly to a splint. I did not wish to take arty 
chances of the hand moving and breaking open the 
dried cotton. When I finished I gave my patient a 
stiff drink of pure rum with two eggs broken in it. 
This seemed to compensate for some of the suffering 
for he smiled and asked for another. I did not dis- 


56 


MACHETE 


appoint him. That night I bound his arm firmly to 
his chest, so that he would not roll on it in his sleep, 
gave him some aspirin and put him to bed in a house 
near mine with a friend to act as nurse. I set my 
alarm for midnight and when it waked me I went to 
see how he was getting on. Both he and his nurse 
were sound asleep and no hemorrhage had occurred. 
At three I visited him again. He was still sleeping— 
so was his nurse. At five he arrived at my house, look¬ 
ing fresh and rested and saying that he was out of 
pain. 

“Ai mi y doctor y ” he smiled gratefully, “it was quite 
a large cut after all! But I am a brave man, Senor, 
and have fought in many battles and am not dis¬ 
mayed by the sight of a little blood.” 

He showed no temperature and his pulse was regu¬ 
lar so I warned him against moving or bumping his 
arm and allowed him to go visit some of his friends 
till noon. I was eating lunch when he rushed into 
the boarding house. His arm was unstrapped from 
the splint and bleeding full force and he showed 
the effects of having drunk a little too much liquor. 

“Ai doctor mio!” he moaned excitedly. “I was in 
the tienda enjoying a very small drink with some 
friends. To prove to some scoffers—some muy malo 
sin verguenzas —that I could still bend my wrist, I 
took off the bandage, and perceive, the cut broke 
open.” 

This time I worked all afternoon before I entirely 
stopped the bleeding. Near midnight the hemorrhage 
started again and I spent the rest of the night dry- 


MACHETE 


57 


ing the dabs of cotton with the heat of an oil flame. 
My patient suggested that I sew up the wound with 
a needle and thread, showing me the unlovely scar 
made by a gunshot wound in his hip that had been 
treated in this manner. The scar showed signs of a 
bad infection and he admitted that he had been very 
sick and had suffered much pain at the time, so I 
gave up this form of aid. 

In the morning, though the bleeding was once 
more checked, the man was quite weak from loss of 
blood so I decided to take him to Dr. Sparks at Port 
of Mexico, rather than take any additional chances. 

“What do you want to save the bastard’s life for? 
Let him do something useful and die. We need fer¬ 
tilizer, and he’s too dumb for any other use!” Sutton 
complained when I asked him to have lunch ready 
and to take us to Santa Lucrecia. Sutton had been a 
top sergeant during the war. 

When we arrived at Port of Mexico, we went di¬ 
rectly to the doctor’s office where the kindly, efficient 
physician performed an operation—at which he al¬ 
lowed me to assist—tying off the severed arteries and 
strapping the arm to a splint. When the operation 
was finished I took the man to a hotel, as Dr. Sparks 
thought it better than to take him to the uncomfor¬ 
table shed-like affair which served as a municipal 
hospital. I was very tired, and after seeing that my 
charge was comfortable for the night I turned in to 
sleep myself. I intended to take the morning train for 
Santa Lucrecia, but I found that my patient had 
suffered all night so I decided to remain till he was 


58 


MACHETE 


out of pain and more contented. Later in the morn¬ 
ing the doctor called, made a complete examination 
and assured us that the pain was nothing more than 
the usual consequence of the operation. The kind, 
confident way Dr. Sparks spoke did as much to ease 
the suffering as the medicine he gave the patient, 
and before noon the man was asleep. 

I took luncheon at a little cafe on the street floor 
of the hotel. 

There were a number of English-speaking people 
there, lunching and watching the antics of a small boy 
as he pumped out tunes on an ancient player piano. 
Recognizing me as a fellow national, alone, the man¬ 
ager of an American oil company introduced him¬ 
self and kindly invited me to join the commanding 
officer of the local troops and himself. Both my new 
acquaintances proved very agreeable. The army offi¬ 
cer had been educated in the States and spoke excel¬ 
lent English. 

That afternoon I had tea with Doctor and 
Mrs. Sparks, in their delightful home overlooking 
the entrance to the harbor. English people are never 
too busy for their tea and no custom among Anglo- 
Saxons has more to do with preserving them as 
Anglo-Saxons in the out of the way places of the 
world. To an Englishman away from home, tea is an 
important duty, and it should be done. 

The sick man was much more comfortable when 
I visited him. 

“Amigo mio y ” he smiled, rather weakly, to be sure, 
“am I not a brave man—a very brave and most in- 


MACHETE 


59 


telligent man? Had I been a fool and remained at 
the fuel camp I would most probably have been dead 
by now—no, Senor doctor?” 

“You are indeed a brave man,” I agreed honestly, 
which seemed to please him very much. I did not 
have the heart to tell him what I thought of his in¬ 
telligence. 

I met the oil company manager and the colonel for 
dinner. After dinner the three of us went to the Cab¬ 
aret Bohemia. There are no family parties ever held 
at the Cabaret Bohemia. It could never be classified as 
respectable. It is an unpretentious, whitewashed shed 
fronting on Port of Mexico’s street of prostitutes, the 
Calle Ferrocarril. About the edges of its long front 
room are lines of tables. In one corner stands a large 
Marimba. The center of the rough board floor is 
reserved for dancing. A door at the back leads to the 
quarters of the women. At ten o’clock we arrived. 
The place was crowded. Had it not been that such 
a prominent personage as the commander of the local 
troops was one of us we would never have secured 
seats. As it was, room in a choice location was im¬ 
mediately made for us and an attendant brought 
table and chairs. In the small place reserved for 
dancing, a boisterous, perspiring crush milled around 
in time to the hollow-sounding music. The hot night 
air was filled with the odor of sweating bodies and 
synthetic perfume and the fumes of strong tobacco 
and stronger liquor. An unpainted, motherly old crea¬ 
ture with snow-white hair was introduced as the pro¬ 
prietress. 


60 


MACHETE 


“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she assured me with 
a captivating business smile. “Anything we can do to 
make your stay in Port of Mexico pleasant, please 
command. We have some very nice girls—some par¬ 
ticularly pretty girls,” she suggested pointedly—too 
pointedly. 

A group of affable young Americans sat near. 
They might easily have been mistaken for college 
men, except that their conversation and actions were 
loud and vulgar, their clothing too modish and they 
were spending prodigious sums of money. It required 
no second glance to connect them in some capacity 
with liquor smuggling. They were true to type. It 
seemed that these men had recently arrived with a 
small schooner flying the French flag. 

They had loaded a cargo of liquor for some port 
in the French West Indies, cleared, and gone to sea. 
A few days later they had returned. A storm at sea had 
forced them to seek the shelter of the port. A Mexi¬ 
can customs guard, who had been stationed on board 
when they arrived, noticed a number of small cans 
stowed in the captain’s cabin. When he inquired 
what they contained and why they had not been listed 
in the manifest, he was offered a bribe to overlook 
them. He accepted the bribe and the ship was about 
to continue the interrupted voyage when a higher 
official decided to check the report of his subordinate. 
This officer was informed that the cans contained 
grease for the engine and were therefore not included 
in the official list. Opening a can, under protest, he 
found it to contain a white powder which proved to 


MACHETE 


61 


be cocaine. All the cans contained the same. The cap¬ 
tain and crew were arrested. Immediately money 
from somewhere appeared for their bonds. 

Landing narcotics from Oriental ships at Salina 
Cruz and smuggling them across the Isthmus to 
Port of Mexico was quite a business. A few cans 
formed a distinct addition to the cargo of bootleg 
vessels. They paid handsomely, if landed, and were 
easy to dump overboard in an emergency. It was a 
simple matter to load them. Most of the officials 
were so susceptible to the influence of money—the 
local manifestation of that fine Italian hand which 
keeps officers of the law away from certain streets at 
understood times in the big cities north of the Rio 
Grande. 

The few that were not so susceptible occasionally 
caused complications that had to be straightened out 
higher up. An effort to frustrate this traffic, as well 
as to prevent the clearance of liquor ships known to 
be smugglers, caused the dangerous wounding of a 
United States official in Port of Mexico. The Ameri¬ 
can bootleggers resented his interference with their 
business and hired a Mexican assassin to murder him. 

The proprietress brought two girls to our table. 
One was an American who had come down from St. 
Louis with a bootlegger and then been deserted. The 
other was a tall, dark, handsome girl with the erect 
carriage and gracious air of one schooled in proper 
social usage. She spoke English slowly, continually 
groping for the correct word, and with a pronounced 


62 


MACHETE 


accent. She also spoke French, German, Spanish and 
Russian—her native tongue. 

“You are American?” She smiled coldly. There 
was nothing tender or ardent about her. 

“Guilty,” I answered. 

“Guilty? Guilty?” she questioned. “What is guil¬ 
ty? Are you not an American?” 

“I’m an American all right,” I answered. “Guilty 
is just an American way of saying yes.” 

“Oh,” she exclaimed softly. “Guilty! Guilty! Yes! 
Yes!” She repeated the words several times. “I like 
Americans,” she continued. “They always pay a 
woman without haggling—so different from French¬ 
men and other Europeans. I like American women, 
too. There were some in school with me in Paris.” 

A strange look came into her eyes for a fleeting 
second, then she smiled again. “Pleasant girls they 
were—these Americans—kind and friendly but lack¬ 
ing in originality. Some time Pm going to America. 
I think I should enjoy it there. I know a nice sort of 
man in Buenos Ayres—a Pole—who wanted to take 
me to America when things got dull in the Argen¬ 
tine. Possibly I was foolish not to have gone with 
him, but there is good money for a woman here in 
Port of Mexico. It’s a nice place too—except that 
it is so hot and there are no amusements.” 

Another girl, all hands and feet and vivacious¬ 
ness, with a wealth of red hair was introduced. She 
was as easily distinguishable from the rest of her sis¬ 
ters as a blonde Eskimo from a crowd of native Green¬ 
landers. Mexicans with hair like flames are uncom- 


MACHETE 


63 


mon. The sharp angles of her child’s body were not 
yet fully rounded into the curves of a woman. 

“Hello, Sailor! Going home with me?” she 
laughed, pronouncing the words slowly. This consti¬ 
tuted her entire knowledge of English, of which she 
seemed very proud. 

Across the strip of sand which served as a street, 
rambled an irregular line of nondescript shanties— 
Peso casas—fifty cent houses—the dregs of the cess¬ 
pool. The sand gleamed white in the glare from the 
cabaret lights. From among the shanties a single dis¬ 
consolate palm tree rose, its melancholy branches 
drooping sadly. Inside was the sweating crush and the 
hollow-sounding music. My train went at five, so 
at once we left. 

A detail of soldiers, doing guard duty in the street, 
stood stiffly at attention, as we passed. The colonel 
saluted. 

The injured man was sleeping soundly, and so was 
the peon I had engaged to act as nurse. I felt no 
reluctance at leaving. 


CHAPTER VII 

Tequila Flows at a Zapotecan Funeral 

For two weeks a cold rain-laden wind had moaned 
out of the north, banishing the usual mosquitoes 
and transforming the footpaths into ribbons of mud- 
holes. The peons shivered in their thin cotton gar¬ 
ments. The foreigners donned heavy clothing and 
drank hot rum toddies in the morning, afternoon and 
evening. The tornado-like velocity of the wind 
forced the rain underneath the doors and through 
the cracks around the windows of the wooden houses, 
and changed the palm shacks into wet, comfortless 
dens which reeked with the stench of shivering, 
huddled humans and stale cooking. Articles in closets 
acquired a musty odor and grew fur coats of green 
mildew. Regiments of black army ants invaded the 
dwellings. Malaria victims suffered tortures. Sick¬ 
ness increased. From dawn till dark the peons sloshed 
around in wet clothing and without shoes. At night 
they slept in their flimsy shacks with no more pro¬ 
tection from the frigid wind than the openwork walls 
and a thin, damp cotton shawl. 

The hardiest northern men I know of would soon 
succumb to such treatment, but the peons smiled. 
They gloried in the fact that they were able to stand 
it. It had been their lot for centuries, unchanged 
since their advent. I kept open house. Every after¬ 
noon streams of peons came for a long glass of hot 
64 


MACHETE 


65 


lemonade and rum before going home to their un¬ 
comfortable hovels. I gathered up the worn cloth¬ 
ing about the plantation and distributed it among 
those that had no dry garments to sleep in. To those 
that were ill I gave medicine. In this way I prevented 
a lot of serious sickness and kept our small force on 
the job. 

One particularly lugubrious evening, just as I was 
finishing supper, the field foreman rushed into the 
dining-room. 

“Two men have just been shot, Don Carlos!” he 
cried excitedly. Friends were bringing the wounded 
men to my house, so the foreman and I hurried over 
to cover a table with clean sheets and make such other 
preparations as were possible to care for them. 

“Malo y Don Carlos. Madre de Dios y muy malo!” 
exclaimed the foreman darkly. “Is the revolution not 
over? Isn’t it?” he looked at me questioningly. I was 
about to answer that I understood that it was, when 
with a shrug of his shoulders he answered his own 
question. “Quien sabe?” He paused for a moment as 
if to give vent to his feelings through silence. “A 
number of men—all simple peons, Don Carlos— 
were on their way from the company store to their 
homes, picking their way along slowly in the dark¬ 
ness and rain, when suddenly some one stepped from 
the brush which borders the path and shot two of 
them,” he explained. “Muy maloy Don Carlos y muy 
malo!” he sighed sadly. “Must we poor Mexicans 
never get done with killing each other? It seems not.” 
His tone was serious. “It has always been so.” 


66 


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“Who did the shooting?” I asked. 

“Quien sabe?” he replied with a blank look. 

Soon the few peons arrived, bearing one of the 
wounded men in a blanket. We laid the bloody, mud- 
covered man on my table. He groaned pitifully in 
his agony. He had been shot in the back. A care¬ 
ful examination indicated only one wound so I de¬ 
termined that the bullet still remained in his body. 
Blood was gushing from the wound, so as quickly 
as possible I cleaned the surrounding surface with 
weak iodine solution and inserted a cotton plug sat¬ 
urated with strong iodine directly into the bullethole. 
This stopped the bleeding. I then covered the surface 
about the wound with a large cotton dressing, wet 
with permanganate of potash solution. It seemed to 
me that if any infection was starting, medicine strong 
enough to counteract the effect of snake poison might 
prove an efficient deterrent. My patient believed the 
bullet to be located under one of his lower ribs and 
implored me to take it out. 

“Please doctor, mio y please,” he pleaded, “the pain 
will be nothing.” But when I explained that there 
was an internal hemorrhage and that an incision 
might provide a quick and easy means for him to 
bleed to death he grew thoughtful, and ceased to im¬ 
plore. 

“Am I going to live, Senor?” he asked. He was 
very cool. I could only assure him that I would do 
everything in my power to save his life. This seemed 
to comfort him. 

Soon more men arrived bearing the second victim 


MACHETE 


67 


on an improvised stretcher. This man did not groan j 
he was dead. The bullet had passed directly through 
his body near his heart, cutting a large artery. The 
body was bathed in its own blood. 

I watched my patient very carefully. I wanted to 
be aware of the first indication of infection so that 
I could take such measures as were possible to combat 
it. He showed no temperature and his pulse con¬ 
tinued regular, therefore I felt reasonably sure that 
the internal bleeding was not causing any complica¬ 
tions. In an hour I removed the cotton plug. The 
strong iodine had acted as a caustic and stopped the 
bleeding. He felt more comfortable and asked for 
water, so I gave him a spoonful every five minutes 
for half an hour. As he manifested no indications of 
his intestines having been perforated, I gave him a 
spoonful of rum. Near midnight he grew weak and 
I gave him an eggnog with plenty of rum. This 
braced him and he slept for a short time. When he 
waked I asked him if he knew who shot him. 

“No, Senor , I have no idea,” he answered. “I 
have no great enemies and I can’t understand why 
anyone should wish to shoot me.” He grew quiet 
and his eyes glittered, “If you ever find out let me 
know, Senor —if I live—and if I die, tell my 
brother.” 

Even in his weakened condition his expression was 
not nice to contemplate. 

Shortly after daylight we started him for Port of 
Mexico where he could get efficient attention, though 
he wanted to remain at the plantation. In Santa Lu- 


68 


MACHETE 


crecia, the government authorities kept him lying 
on the platform of the railroad station for over 
twenty-four hours, while they officially questioned 
some of his companions. How he survived this has 
always been a mystery to me. 

Less than a month after, a most appreciative letter 
reached me with the information that he was out of 
all pain and would soon be entirely well. The doctors 
had located the bullet and removed it. An investiga¬ 
tion commission came down from Santa Lucrecia to 
continue at the plantation their search for the mur¬ 
derer. Several theories as to who perpetrated the 
crime were investigated. Finally they concluded that 
it was just a case of mistaken identity—the murderer 
had made an unfortunate mistake in the dark. 

We had a very pleasant dinner with the members 
of the commission. They were most agreeable gen¬ 
tlemen, and, like all government officials in Mexico, 
each one was armed. Their chairman, an unusually 
small man, had little beady eyes and a long pointed 
moustache which drooped, giving him something of 
the appearance of a diminutive walrus. In keeping 
with his position, the pistol he carried was particu¬ 
larly large and ornate. During the course of the din¬ 
ner he unlimbered his artillery and playfully shot at 
the ceiling, squealing with delight at the effect his 
little joke produced. Undoubtedly he adored humor. 
Another member became slightly confused as to the 
exact identity of his napkin. For some reason he 
seemed to think it was a handkerchief. In the morn- 


MACHETE 


69 


ing they returned to Santa Lucrecia. The matter was 
quickly forgotten. The victims were only peons. 

The holiday season was drawing near and a com¬ 
mittee was appointed to decorate the sugar ware¬ 
house in preparation for a grand celebration which 
was planned for New Year’s Eve. The committee 
met and swept the warehouse out and placed long 
benches, improvised from boards and beer bottle 
cases, along the walls. To add a final touch to their 
efforts they strung streamers of gaudy tissue paper 
from the center of the ceiling to the sides. The place 
looked festive and clean. 

The last day of the year dawned dismally. The 
wind howled and rattled the windows. The rain fell 
in sheets. Toward evening the rain ceased, but the 
force of the wind doubled. 

In the late afternoon the usual orchestra, aug¬ 
mented by several guitars and a flute that squealed 
like a porker in the death agony, held a final re¬ 
hearsal. A bombardment of exploding skyrockets told 
the plantation that the monster celebration was about 
to commence. I felt no apprehension. Everything was 
too wet to burn. A large washtub of bottled beer and 
ice was deposited in a corner, behind the refreshment 
table. A few cases of rum and tequila were stowed 
underneath. By eight the party was in full swing. A 
crowd of gaily dressed people, uncomfortable in their 
unaccustomed shoes, scraped over the rough cement 
floor in time to the discordant music. 

An hour before midnight a group of youths ar¬ 
rived bearing a straw-stuffed dummy on a stretcher. 


70 


MACHETE 


It was a resigned looking sham with disordered hair 
and flowing beard both made from white cotton 
waste. The stub of an old pipe protruded from its 
mouth. The music stopped and the dancers gathered 
around. 

“Buenas noches y Senor doctor greeted the leader, 
bowing low before me with aggravated formality. 
“Senor doctor ” he continued in a loud voice that all 
assembled could hear, “we have brought to you an 
old man—a very old man—who is extremely sick. 
We expect that he might be dying and we implore 
you to take his temperature and count his pulse and 
do all that you can to prolong his life as he has been 
a very good friend to most- of us.” Again bowing low, 
he handed me a large burlesque of a temperature 
thermometer and make-believe alarm clock. 

The assembled people clapped and shouted while 
I went through the form of making a complete phy¬ 
sical examination, and reported that the old man was 
very low. The group of youths burst into mock tears 
while one of them produced a towel and carefully 
wiped the thermometer. This produced wild hilarity. 
Another gave me a few clay marbles, painted a flam¬ 
ing red, to represent pills, one of which I forced 
between the counterfeit lips. In fifteen minutes I re¬ 
peated the procedure. As midnight neared the danc¬ 
ing again ceased and the guests gathered around the 
dummy and called humorous suggestions to me for 
prolonging its life. One of the youths made up to 
represent an old woman, knelt by its side, drying his 
eyes with a large bandanna from which he wrung 


MACHETE 


71 


water. This stunt easily made him the center of the 
fun making. He had difficulty in kneeling. Under¬ 
neath his makeup was a machete. 

Promptly at twelve I pronounced the dummy dead 
and amid ribald shouts the youths hustled the figure 
from the room. There was much fevered embracing 
and shaking hands and many vows of eternal friend¬ 
ship. Outside a crescendo of exploding skyrockets 
reached its height. It was much like a similar cele¬ 
bration at home, only with the same alcoholic free¬ 
dom more Americans would have been drunk. By 
one the party had resolved itself into an endurance 
contest between the few couples who still scraped 
wearily over the rough floor. I left for my house 
as there was nothing more to see. 

I had just gotten into my cold bed and covered 
myself with its damp clothes when the stone mason 
came to the door. 

“Don Carlos!” he called excitedly, “Felix is dead! 
I found the body in an outbuilding back of my house 
upon my return from the celebration.” 

The thought was confusing. Felix the kindly, 
loyal, lazy fellow who used to laugh and lift the 
loaded dirt-scraper when it got stuck and stopped 
the bulls, and then when my back was turned, slip off 
to the shade. Felix the strong man. It was hard to 
understand. I knew he had been sick with the grippe 
for a week. I had been to see him every day. But for 
two days he had not been home when I called. The 
storekeeper told me he was drunk. Nothing could 
keep him sober long if he had the money to buy 


72 


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liquor. Getting out of bed, I pulled on my clammy 
clothes and followed the mason. We found he body 
lying face downward on the soggy floor of a flimsy 
outbuilding. 

At the mason’s suggestion we lifted the lifeless 
form out of the mud and carried it inside his house. 
There was no wound on the body and nothing to 
indicate that my late friend had met with foul play. 
For two days he had been roaming around the plan¬ 
tation drunk. At night he had turned in to sleep at 
any convenient shelter, lying down on the cold, 
damp ground with no covering but his thin wet cloth¬ 
ing. Taking into consideration his condition, I con¬ 
cluded that pneumonia had caused his death. 

The mason tied the feet together while I bound 
the hands across the great chest. The mason’s wife 
washed the mud from the kindly face and smoothed 
back the matted hair. When we had finished we 
planted four candles about the body in the outline 
of a Christian cross. There was nothing more that 
could be done until daylight so I suggested that as 
we were not sure what caused the death, the mason 
take his family to the home of some friend for the 
night. 

“Why should we leave?” he questioned. “Felix is 
dead and the dead can do no harm. Likewise no one 
would care to bother the dead.” 

“But the risk of infection,” I suggested. “We are 
not sure what killed Felix and your whole family 
might become infected with the same disease.” 


MACHETE 


73 


“Ai. That is true, Senor” he pondered. “You are 
so very careful of us. But we are all so well and 
strong —muy fuerte, Senor” He pounded his chest 
with his clenched fist and smiled. Nothing I could 
say would induce him to leave. His two children 
were sleeping in one bed. His wife and he retired 
in another and I returned to my house. I hoped the 
light from the spluttering candles would not keep 
any of them awake. 

At daylight I hunted up Bill and the two of us 
tried to find some mechanics to make a coffin, but it 
was a holiday and none could be found. At eight I 
went to the mason’s. The body still lay in the center 
of the floor and fresh candles had been put in place 
around it. A wolfish dog sniffed significantly. A fussy 
old hen hopped about, clucking to her brood. The 
tiny chicks had great difficulty scrambling to the top 
of the corpse. The mason’s two children played a 
noisy game of ball at the side of the room. The 
mason and four men sat at a table drinking tequila. 

“Come in, Don Carlos,” he welcomed, seeing me 
standing at the door. “Another seat, boy,” he ordered 
brusquely, addressing his son. The boy disappeared 
through the door, to return promptly, struggling 
with a cracker box. The mason filled the one glass 
on the table to the brim with tequila. 

“Out of respect for our departed friend,” he said, 
pushing the glass across the table to a place in front 
of me. I sipped the tequila and passed it on to the 
man next me. Custom decreed that we must all drink 


74 


MACHETE 


from the same glass to show that we were all equal 
in our friendship for Felix. After the glass had gone 
entirely around and had been drained the men arose. 
Stretching a straw petate out on the floor they placed 
the corpse within it and sewed it up, and then slung 
it between two poles. Four of them picked up the 
bundle and started for the cemetery. The fifth man 
and I followed, carrying the tools. As the cortege 
started several women commenced firing skyrockets. 
By the same token the birth of Felix had most prob¬ 
ably been heralded. In places the mud was knee-deep 
and very slippery. The body bearers were all slightly 
under the influence of liquor—one was drunk. As we 
were negotiating a particularly difficult stretch of 
trail the drunken man stumbled and dropped his 
corner of the corpse. The force of the fall caused the 
head of the dead man to protrude from the petate. 
I helped the fallen man to his feet but he reeled and 
fell again. 

“ Caramba!” exclaimed the mason, “ Levantarse! 
Arriba! Get up! Do you wish to be a disgrace at the 
funeral of your friend, and you an official too?” But 
the man was beyond continuing. He struggled to a 
sitting posture at the side of the path and held his 
head in his hands. “Caramba!” exclaimed the mason 
again, perplexed. “Hombre! Sin verguenza! Get up! 
But the man didn’t move. The mason rolled his eyes 
and whistled softly. 

“Couldn’t I help?” I suggested. 

“Si” he agreed slowly, “though you are not a 


MACHETE 


75 


Mexican you were a friend of Felix, so I suppose it 
would be all right.” I picked up the end of the pole 
and the procession once more started. The head of 
the dead man swung back and forth as we walked. 
It was something of a struggle to keep it from drag¬ 
ging in the mud. Once I thought the body would 
slip from the fetate entirely. 

Noon arrived before we finished digging the grave. 
There were frequent interruptions, as we had brought 
a bottle of tequila with us. I wanted to go for the 
Spanish bookkeeper to have him read some simple 
Christian service, but the mason and the others 
wished no service. 

The men took off their hats and without further 
ceremony dumped the corpse into the narrow excava¬ 
tion. The man stood at the head of the grave and 
chanted something in the ancient Zafotecan language. 

“It was better so,” he explained, “Felix was of 
Tehuantepec—a Zapotecan.” As they were filling the 
grave I dropped in a small bouquet of wild flowers. 
There was no objection. They seemed to appreciate 
this tribute from a friend of another race. The flow¬ 
ers were of Tehuantepec. The mortal remains of my 
friend were fast disappearing beneath the descending 
clods of earth. As I gazed a shovelful obliterated 
the face—kindly even in death. It was the last I 
should ever see of Felix. When the grave was filled 
one of the men stuck the lighted stub of a candle in 
the fresh mound of earth. Another tied two sticks 
togther in the form of a Christian cross and firmly 


76 


MACHETE 


planted it at the head. On the surface foreign sym¬ 
bols. Down underneath, covered by his native soil, re¬ 
posed the body of a Zapotecan whose soul had gone 
to his fathers. I am sure his spirit was welcome. 
There was still some tequila . Before we left it was 
finished. 


CHAPTER VIII 


“But Senorita, I am Not a Doctor”— 
“Muy Comico” 

The norther had blown itself out. The daily 
rain was becoming less; the temperature was rising 
and the mosquitoes had returned. One night the sky 
stayed clear and the moon rose. A group of peons 
sang in the moonlight until after midnight. The 
rainy season was drawing to a close. All hands were 
very busy completing the final arrangements to com¬ 
mence grinding as soon as the ground became suffi¬ 
ciently dry. Bill fired up one of the locomotives and 
took it over the yard track to test the roadbed and 
switches. Though the ground looked fairly dry he 
found it still too soft for safety. 

“Well, anyway, Pills, it won’t be long now,” he 
called gleefully to me. Like the rest of us he was 
anxious for the grinding to commence. Almost every 
day hands for the harvest were arriving. One of the 
newly arrived workmen came to see me. He was a 
tall, handsome boy with an absolutely captivating 
smile. 

“Buenos dias , Senor” he greeted nervously from 
my doorway. He seemed so uncertain that I rose and 
opened the screen for him. 

“I am sick, Senor , and the foreman told me that 
you would give me medicine,” he said when he was 
seated. Truly he was sick. He had a high fever, a 
very sore throat and an irregular pulse so I rubbed 
77 


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his chest and throat with liniment and put more lini¬ 
ment into a basin of boiling water and had him in¬ 
hale the healing fumes. 

Then I put him to bed and gave him a hot lemon¬ 
ade, with plenty of rum, and a large dose of aspirin 
and quinine. In the morning he was worse. When I 
examined his throat, in addition to the inflammation 
I noticed two distinct cream-colored patches, one on 
each side of the center. He was in a great deal of 
pain and talking was difficult. I had listened to my 
mother describe the struggle she went through when 
my oldest brother suffered from diphtheria and I felt 
the newcomer had it. We had no diphtheria anti¬ 
toxin and I knew there was none in Santa Lucrecia. 
I swabbed his throat every four hours with a weak 
solution of iodine and made him as comfortable as 
possible. This was the treatment that had saved my 
brother and I knew of nothing else to do. I told him 
he was very sick. He nodded assent. Talking was too 
painful. After a while he struggled to ask to be sent 
to his home. Though I felt guilty of subjecting the 
countryside to a grave danger I did not have the 
heart to refuse. The fact that I was not absolutely 
sure he was infected with diphtheria in a measure 
consoled me. 

“Muchas gracias y Senor ” he smiled with an effort 
when I gave my consent to his leaving. He was un¬ 
usually polite. I arranged for one of his friends to 
accompany him on the morning launch. When I 
reached my house at noon he was seated on the porch 
holding his head in his hands. 


MACHETE 


79 


“I thought you’d gone?” I asked, surprised. 

“It’s no use, Senor , I am going to die,” he strug¬ 
gled to reply. 

He was very weak but he showed no emotion. I 
did all I could do encourage him and persuaded him 
to return home and go to bed. 

Shortly after two, a man came running to tell me 
that someone was dying in one of the houses back 
of the sugarmill. It was in this location that the 
newcomer lived. 

“Hurry! Hurry, Senor , or you will be too late to 
be of any help!” he cried. Gathering up my few 
instruments I ran up the path after my informer. I 
felt no doubt that the dying man was my latest 
patient. From my mother I had learned that the 
great danger to my brother when he was sick with 
diphtheria was in his strangling to death. From a 
newspaper account of the development of various 
antitoxins I had learned that in diphtheria a ter¬ 
rible toxin developed which caused a total pros¬ 
tration of the heart and death. Among my instru¬ 
ments was a small metal tube which I had boiled 
and scrubbed and then soaked in alcohol till I 
felt that it was thoroughly clean. I had determined 
that if I found my patient not responding to the 
simple treatment I was capable of giving and there¬ 
fore choking, to open his throat just above his breast¬ 
plate, pick out his windpipe and allow him to breathe 
through the metal tube. I thought that if he could 
breathe there might be a chance for him to overcome 
any toxins which might have developed. A difficult 



80 


MACHETE 


job for an amateur but worth attempting, if a life 
might be saved. 

When we reached the cluster of huts a group of 
people was gathered in the central path. In their 
midst, lying on the ground, was my patient. 

His tongue protruded from his mouth, which was 
stretched wide open. His staring eyes looked as if 
they were about to burst from his head. He was be¬ 
yond the need of any human help. He was dead. He 
had risen from his bed gasping, delirious, tottered 
from his shack, fallen down in the path and died. 
As I looked at the poor boy lying dead in the dirt I 
understood why so many physicians become grey¬ 
headed before their time. I kept close watch of every 
one who had come in contact with him and took all 
the precautions I could think of that might prevent 
the spread of this dreadful malady. Fortunately, we 
had no more cases. 

Watson was among our old hands who returned. 
“Glad to see you again, Doc,” he greeted familiarly. 
“Glad you’re still able to care for the sick and ain’t 
one yourself.” The big revolver still hung securely 
under his great left arm. 

“Still lug the heavy artillery,” I remarked. 

“That’s my traveling companion,” he grinned. 
“Having it sure’s kept me out of a heap of trouble. 
Around here I guess I’m all right without it—except 
at dances—some of the bush monkeys were in Port 
of Mexico during the revolution and when they get 
to having a good time they get courageous—too cour¬ 
ageous—that’s the trouble. They ain’t got no bal- 



MACHETE 


81 


ance.” I felt relieved when he finaly started down 
the path that led to the peon quarters. 

As I stood gratefully watching the receding bulk 
of the giant negro, I noticed a small procession com¬ 
ing up the path. Watson waved his huge hand in 
greeting and stepped respectfully out of the way. I 
was surprised at his politeness. It was not until this 
action attracted my attention that I noticed the im¬ 
portant figure of Don Mauricio followed by two 
women. Don Mauricio was one of the landed aris¬ 
tocracy. On his own land he grew cane which he 
sold to the plantation. The type he represented was 
more common in Mexico before the revolution than 
at present. He was intelligent and agreeable and well 
informed and most considerate of my very poor 
Spanish. He often came to call and I always enjoyed 
his visits. Through the window I saw them turn in 
at my gate. Without delaying for the usual formality 
they filed through the door and Don Mauricio pre¬ 
sented his wife and daughter. The few peons await¬ 
ing my attentions rose respectfully and quietly left. 

“Good afternoon,” greeted the young lady in 
halting English, smiling at my surprise. She had 
just returned from two years at a boarding school in 
Vera Cruz. Don Mauricio smiled too. He was proud 
of his daughter. She seemed properly garbed for a 
formal reception and her shoes were covered by a 
pair of modish galoshes, left open at the front. Her 
mother promptly accepted the chair I offered. She 
seldom wore shoes and when she did they hurt. She 
had come with her daughter only out of deference to 


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the position of the family. Don Mauricio had brought 
the young lady to consult me regarding her health. 

“I occasionally have attacks of pain here,” the girl 
smiled, indicating her side. “I have one now. Several 
doctors in Vera Cruz have diagnosed my trouble as 
appendicitis . . .” 

“But Senorita, I am not a doctor,” I hastened to 
interrupt, very much aghast. 

She smiled politely. “Each one of the doctors I 
consulted recommended an operation,” she kept on 
completely ignoring my interruption. 

“But Senorita ...” I protested again. 

She hesitated a moment and smiled bewitchingly. 
“I do not care to be operated upon, so I had father 
bring me to you to be cured.” Her lips curved into a 
provocative half moon and she waited expectantly. 

Cured! Whew! 

“But Don Mauricio,” I implored, turning to him 
in desperation, “please understand that I am not a 
doctor and that I know next to nothing about appen¬ 
dicitis. Appendicitis is serious—very serious—and 
must be taken care of by experts.” 

“Si,” he shrugged with a blank look. 

“But I do not wish to be taken care of by experts 
and operated upon! ” protested the girl emphatically. 

I painted a gruesome picture of the dangers of 
neglecting such a trouble. I described the horror of 
an emergency attack way off in the jungle without 
facilities or a surgeon to bring relief. I felt qualified 
to sympathize, having carried my appendix home in 
a bottle to a horrified family. My visitors understood 


MACHETE 


83 


very little of what I was endeavoring in my nervous¬ 
ness and very poor Spanish to explain. They were 
profoundly impressed. Don Mauricio looked worried, 
but the young lady continued to smile. 

“But Don Carlos, I do not'wish to be taken care of 
by experts and operated upon,” she repeated firmly 
with a most entrancing glance. Even in the jungle 
we have our moments. 

I explained that the little things I had done for 
the peons were things that anyone could have done. 
The young lady continued to look at me firmly and 
smile. I had known hard-headed men of affairs to 
be influenced by the remarks of a street corner fakir 
and I realized that the talk of the peons had created 
an opinion of my powers to heal that was far beyond 
the truth. 

“But Don Mauricio,” I started. 

“But I don’t wish to be operated on! ” interrupted 
the girl vehemently. Her expression was grave. She 
looked as if she might be on the point of tears. 

I had heard that a spoonful of olive oil taken be¬ 
fore breakfast would help to relieve the pain of ap¬ 
pendicitis but that once the condition was developed, 
olive oil was about as useful as an equal amount of 
water. The Senorita looked at me hopefully. Her 
large brown eyes regarded me wonderingly through 
their long lashes. 

“You might try a spoonful of oil every morning. 
This might temporarily relieve the pain but it will 
never cure the condition,” I explained. The girl 
brightened. 


84- 


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“Yes! Yes! Don Carlos, olive oil before break¬ 
fast. Do I have to take it every morning?” she asked, 
very interested. Don Mauricio rose and stood beside 
his daughter’s chair and looked encouragingly at me. 

“Yes, Don Carlos, yes?” she said expectantly. I 
realized that it was up to me. 

“And you might remain in bed during the morn¬ 
ing for about two weeks, and while lying down have 
cloths which have been saturated in cold and hot 
water alternately, placed upon your side every fifteen 
minutes,” I suggested, my courage mounting. I knew 
this would increase the circulation locally. 

“Yes, Don Carlos,” she repeated enthusiastically. 

“And if you don’t feel well in a week, please go 
back to the doctor in Vera Cruz.” The young lady 
frowned. 

Before they departed I admonished her to eat only 
easily digested foods and very little of these. 

In a week I was invited to visit her in her home. 
She was in no more pain and feeling very happy. “Ai, 
Don Carlos, you are very much of a joker, muy 
comico” she laughed, “you pretty nearly scared me 
into being operated upon. AH You Americanos!” 

“But being out of pain does not signify that you 
are over the trouble,” I explained. For a moment a 
grave looked crossed her face like a cloud crossing a 
summer day. Then she smiled again “Ai, you Ameri¬ 
canos!” she said. So far as I know she is still intact. 
Nothing could ever change her opinion that I had 
cured her. 

After this I was called upon for advice and treat- 


MACHETE 


85 


ment in troubles the very nature of which proved 
most confusing. My patients would accept no expla¬ 
nation of my lack of information. I invented some 
marvelous treatments. The large amount of success 
surprised me as much as it delighted those benefited. 
I became convinced that confidence has a lot to do 
with cure. 


CHAPTER IX 

Labor War with Lousy Peons 

The mud was almost dry. The river had once more 
become a respectable stream. Bill and Mr. Lang, the 
factory superintendent, were working night and day 
completing the final details for grinding. Six hun¬ 
dred wild looking men had arrived from the high¬ 
lands of Oaxaca to cut our cane. The quiet old plan¬ 
tation suddenly became a beehive of activity, for the 
harvest was to start in two days. 

The cane cutters were different from the people of 
Tehuantepec. They were smaller and not so generally 
intelligent, and unlike our own people, their bodies 
were filthy and their manner of living foul—foul 
even beyond conception of a North American. The 
women were worse than the men. They seldom ever 
bathed and never changed or washed their clothes. 
Disease was rife among them. Many suffered from 
chronic ulcers which they had treated by covering 
with thick poultices of fresh cow dung. The results 
were sometimes atrocious. The only medicine most 
of them had ever known had been brewed from the 
leaves of their native plants. Pills, powders and oint¬ 
ments were strange and they regarded them with sus¬ 
picion. They invariably went through painful and 
breath-taking contortions when taking pills, stuffing 
them down their throats with the end of a finger. 

We quartered the Oaxacas away from our own 
86 


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87 


people. To have put them in the same part of the 
plantation would have precipitated a local civil war. 
Their ideas and mutual understanding were at least 
as far apart as those of Maine and Virginia before 
Jefferson Davis became a president. Here was a mild 
illustration of the great problem of the Mexican Gov¬ 
ernment. The co-ordination under a single govern¬ 
ment of many scattered peoples, each with a different 
standard and psychology and many with different 
languages. In conformation with the law we had en¬ 
gaged a physician for the harvest and changed my 
house into a dispensary and quarters for the doctor, 
who was scheduled to arrive with the starting of the 
crop. I was to help him till he got his work organ¬ 
ized, then I was to take charge of the welfare work 
and act as assistant to the field foreman. The Oaxacas 
were completely under the domination of a labor 
contractor, by the name of Casandra, who brought 
them to the plantation. When they arrived Casandra 
counted his charges as, a drover would his sheep and 
then hunted up Sutton. 

“Only two men short, Senor Superintendents y ” he 
smiled in greeting, but when the chief timekeeper 
turned in his labor lists at the end of the day there 
were fourteen men less than the contractor had 
agreed to hire. As Casandra had demanded and re¬ 
ceived his fee for the full six hundred, minus the two 
absentees he had acknowledged, Sutton went to him 
with our lists. He found him in the store drinking 
with two Oaxacas and Watson. 

“Your timekeepers just made a mistake, Senor 


88 


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Sutton,” he shrugged a little unsteadily. This appar¬ 
ently ended the matter, for with a “they are here and 
will turn up, Senor y ” he refused to count the cane 
cutters again. 

“Something tells me we are stuck,” grumbled the 
superintendent. 

After supper Watson brought Casandra to see me. 

“Meet an old friend of mine. Him and me was in 
the revolution together and I’ll vouch for him. He’s 
all right,” he drawled, with a queer expression. 

“It’s a pleasure and an honor to meet you,” bowed 
Casandra. He was a tall, thin man with mirthless 
eyes and a straight mouth and evidence of much for¬ 
eign blood. 

“I’ll be glad to do anything I can for the comfort 
and well-being of your people,” I declared. That 
seemed to please him, for he smiled and bowed. 

“That’s the spirit, Doc,” drawled Watson, so en¬ 
thusiastically that I wondered just what had caused 
his change of heart. 

“It is indeed a pleasure and an honor to meet one 
of the plantation executives who so kindly assures me 
of his desire to co-operate,” Casandra smiled. 

“That’s my job, Senor , looking out for the people 
and keeping them comfortable and well and on the 
job,” I explained. 

As if to test the sincerity of my assertion, he was 
back at the dispensary within half an hour bringing a 
few of his Oaxacas with him. 

“Buenas noches y Senor doctor he greeted pleas¬ 
antly. “Will you be so kind as to fix up these poor 


MACHETE 


89 


sick men?” From his tone and manner he seemed to 
have a real affection for the peons. Some hesitated 
to take the medicine I handed them. Casandra’s de¬ 
meanor changed abruptly. “Take that!” he growled. 
The men took their medicine without more delay. 
There was no doubt as to who was boss. 

In the morning Casandra called on Sutton with a 
request for money to adjust some professed differ¬ 
ences of the Oaxacas. 

“The working conditions were misrepresented in 
your contract, Senor Superintendente , and the cane 
cutters are very dissatisfied—very, very dissatisfied,” 
—he smiled knowingly, “but I can fix up everything 
promptly with a small amount of money—a very 
small amount, for such a big plantation, Senor” He 
looked at Sutton eagerly. But the superintendent re¬ 
fused to acknowledge that anything had been mis¬ 
represented or to atone for any imagined grievances 
with money. 

“Bueno! You be pleased; I can not be responsible 
if they do not stay,” he shrugged, disappointed. 

“What’s the matter with the damn mongrels? Sut¬ 
ton stormed when we met at lunch. 

“Search me!” I answered. 

“They understood everything, the rotters—every¬ 
thing—just what to expect in all its details, and 
seemed glad to get the jobs, and now with the crop 
about to start they pull this boner.” 

“Sure they understood everything and everything 
was all right and still is. The cane cutters aren’t com¬ 
plaining. None of them have come to you with any 


90 


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kicks. It’s their boss. What he wants is a little pri¬ 
vate graft,” volunteered Bill. 

“Graft? But he made his own contract. We paid 
him his price and he’s already collected all we owe 
him and more, for a dozen of his men haven’t shown 
up.” 

“Yes, Mr. Superintendent,” agreed Bill compla¬ 
cently, “but he wants more pay, more than his contract 
calls for—the man’s ambitious, give him credit—and 
he’s willing to stir up a nasty mess to carry his point.” 

“Well, the cane cutters are here. They’re getting 
extra good wages and everything’s been done to make 
them comfortable that we possibly can do, so let 
their boss kick all he wants to—let him kick and see 
if I care!” Sutton scowled. 

“Certainly—let him kick—what the hell’s the dif¬ 
ference?” Bill paused and lit a cigarette. “If he’ll 
just kick to himself or us, but he won’t. We are sup¬ 
posed to start cutting cane day after tomorrow and by 
tomorrow, if not before, he’s going to come to you 
with a worried look and tell you he’s very much 
afraid the cutters are going to leave.” Bill had had 
experience in Mexico. 

“But the contract. That’s ...” 

“The contract’s pure bologna—just pure bologna,” 
interrupted Bill. “The contract only holds the com¬ 
pany. There’s nothing the plantation can do to make 
the men stay here and cut cane if they want to leave. 
Go to law about it. Take it up with the authorities in 
Santa Lucrecia. Take any course you want to and 
you’ll find I’m right. The contractor’s in the clear. 


MACHETE 


91 


He’s brought the men here. And why should they 
stay, if they don’t want to?” 

“But certainly, if the plantation is paying good 
wages and the men are satisfied, they aren’t going 
to quit just because some grafter tells them to?” I 
objected. 

“That’s where you’re wrong. If it was in their own 
country and they knew us, there wouldn’t be any 
trouble. It would take more than the jabber of one 
man to coax them away from good jobs. Here it’s 
different. They’re foreigners, they’re away from 
home. One man induced them to come. He’s their 
leader and they’ll do just what he tells them. If 
there are any hold-outs, Casandra can easily figure 
out enough that’s not satisfactory to satisfy the most 
skeptic among them. And believe me, he knows it.” 

“But if I dig up the extra coin, I bet the cutters 
won’t get any of it,” Sutton hesitated. 

“Certainly they won’t. I doubt whether any of 
them outside of the few Casandra is bribing to stand 
with him know anything of the whole matter. If they 
knew, he’d have to kick in and he don’t want to kick 
in. He wants all the money. It’s a way they have in 
this country.” 

“Well, it’s just graft—just pure graft, and I’m 
not going to stand for it. I’m going to tell these birds 
how this grafter is trying to bunk them. Then they 
won’t leave us flat.” 

“Yes, they will,” Bill argued. “He’ll tell them that 
you’re lying. That he was trying to get the money 
for them, and they’ll believe him. You’re a foreign- 


92 


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er—a Yankee—a cruel oppressor of the North—a 
tool of Wall Street—a few have heard the words but 
none of them know what they mean. But that don’t 
matter—you’re some sort of an instrument of tor¬ 
ture—that’s enough. He’ll wave his hands and shout 
‘Viva Oaxaca!’ ” Bill rose and gave a vivid illustra¬ 
tion, “ ‘Long live liberty! Long live the Republic!’ 
Ain’t it glorious?” he laughed. “In half an hour he 
could have them ready to commit murder and not 
one would have an idea of what it’s all about. These 
birds have been playing follow the leader for so 
many centuries that they’ve forgotten how to do any¬ 
thing strictly on their own hook, if they ever knew. 
Look at the revolutions. The poor dumb-bells don’t 
know what they’re fighting for half the time. They 
just follow some leader and fight because they like 
fighting and he gives them a peso a day and tells 
them who to fight.” Bill paused and resumed his 
seat. 

“Well,” said Sutton stubbornly, “I’ve got just so 
much money to run this crop and I’ll be damned if 
I use any of it for graft.” 

“Yes! And I’m thinking you’ll be damned if you 
don’t,” Bill nodded knowingly. “That is,” and his 
eyes twinkled, “unles you discover some other way of 
getting rid of Senor Casandra. He’s the fly that’s 
spoiling the ointment. Without him in the picture 
there’ll be no trouble, and I’ll bet on it.” 

Just as Bill had predicted, the middle of the next 
afternoon Casandra came bowing to the superintend¬ 
ent with a long face and worried look. 


MACHETE 


93 


“Ai y Senor” he sighed, “I don’t see how I can do 
anything to keep the cutters from leaving. They are 
so dissatisfied, Senor! So very dissatisfied, Senor.” 

“Let the damn louts go!” Sutton challenged, his 
anger getting the better of his judgment. 

“As you choose, Senor” Casandra shrugged with 
a hurt look. 

That evening there were very few Oaxacas about 
the factory clearing. It was rumored that they were 
in their own village holding a meeting to formulate 
a list of demands which were to be presented to the 
superintendent in the morning. 

“Look out! That fellow’s starting something 
which might prove hard to fix,” warned Bill when 
we met in the dining room. 

When I went up to my house after supper Wat¬ 
son was waiting there with Casandra. “Hello, Doc,” 
he greeted. Then, without pausing for me to reply, 
he started. “You know that countryman of yours, 
that superintendent, he isn’t smart...” 

“So you’re in on this too!” I interrupted in sur¬ 
prise. I had thought his connection with Casandra 
was only as a friend. 

“Sure! I’m the bodyguard. You didn’t think a 
smart man like me was damn fool enough to sweat 
in the cane fields for small change when there’s 
money to be made, did you?” he answered. 

“You’re smart all right—too damn smart! I’m 
surprised to learn that you’re not too smart to be a 
thief.” 

“Now here!” he glared, “Don’t start throwing 


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names around. I don’t like them. All Casandra wants 
is a little extra money. He’s worked hard getting 
these men down here and he’s not making much. If 
that countryman of yours was any good he’d make 
some money for himself and the rest of us.” 

“You mean if he wasn’t any good,” I interrupted. 

“That’s all right—you’ll see. We got things 
started; we had a meeting this evening,” he leered. 

“It’s just stealing, Watson—just pure stealing and 
the superintendent’s absolutely right.” 

“Stealing, hell! This plantation’s rich. They sure 
can afford to pay a little something extra to have 
their crop go off nice and smooth. Why, it’s money 
in their pockets. Just figure what it’ll cost if they 
have to delay to get a new crew?” 

“But this man, this friend of yours, Watson, 
signed a contract. A mighty fair and liberal contract, 
too, knowing exactly what he was doing. Now why 
isn’t he man enough to live up to it?” 

“But Senor doctor , I am not making enough 
money—not near enough money,” Casandra pro¬ 
tested. 

“Then why didn’t you ask for more in the begin¬ 
ning?” I asked. 

“At” he shrugged shrewdly, “I might have lost the 
business. There are other labor contractors, you 
know.” 

“You got the wrong idea of the way business goes 
down here, Doc,” drawled Watson, in a softer tone. 
“Now, Doc, if you’ll help us ...” he suggested. 

“Not me, Watson!” 


MACHETE 


95 


“Well, please yourself! Please yourself! But after 
you think it over, if you change your mind, we won’t 
forget you.” 

The news of the meeting of the Oaxacas had spread 
around the plantation like wild fire. The sergeant 
commanding our soldier guard had ordered his men 
under arms. Just as I was starting to prepare for bed, 
Felipe came in. Felipe, like a number of our old em¬ 
ployees, had lived on the plantation for years and 
regarded it as his home. 

t( Ai, Don Carlos,” he wailed, “These Oaxacas— 
these sin verguenzas! Fools! Pigs! Monkeys!” 
Felipe was very exasperated. “They would take the 
bread out of our mouths, for no honest reason what¬ 
ever. And what are we to do, Senor? What, I ask 
you, should we people of Tehuantepec do?” he rolled 
his eyes expressively and drew an index finger across 
his throat in a rapid and most sanguine manner 
“What should we do? I ask you again, what should 
we do?” Then, without pausing he answered his own 
question, “Quien sabe?” he held his hands in front 
of him, palms outward. 

Outside the sound of a commotion abruptly termi¬ 
nated our discussion. I went to the screen. A small 
crowd of excited men was coming down the path. 
From fragments of their conversation I gathered 
that someone had been wounded. In a moment they 
reached the door. In their midst was Casandra, limp 
and bleeding. He had been in the tienda drinking 
and boasting and had entered into an argument with 
one of our old hands. The argument had terminated 


96 


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in a fight and now he had a bad cut in the side of his 
neck and a left forearm that had been laid open 
to the bone. 

“I should have killed that damned monkey! I 
would have, too, if there hadn’t been so many sol¬ 
diers around with their rifles!” Watson grumbled. 
He stood as a bodyguard should, faithfully by the 
side of his employer. He looked at me venomously. 
“You fellows sure got to come across now, because 
Pm going to run this thing!” he said roughly. 

I cleared the crowd that had gathered from the 
room and at once started cleansing the wounds and 
sewing them up. 

Casandra was limp and groaning as much from 
the effects of over indulgence in liquor as from the 
effects of his wounds. 

“Is he going to get all right?” Watson demanded. 

“I don’t know—I guess so,” I answered. He was 
not dangerously hurt. 

“He’d better, if you think much of your skin. He’s 
got lots of friends.” 

Sutton and Bill came in as I worked. Both of 
them were armed. 

“What do you let this smoke stay here for?” de¬ 
manded Sutton. 

“He’s the bodyguard,” I answered. 

“Yes, and I’m going to stay right here and see 
that everything goes right,” Watson declared. 

“I’ll be damned if you would if I was doing the 
sewing!” said the superintendent. 

“Got a gun on yourself?” Undismayed, the ne- 


MACHETE 


97 


gro grinned at Sutton and changed the subject. 

“And I know how to use it too.” 

“You might,” Watson drawled. “You might even 
have a chance. Who knows? But if you do, you’ll 
most probably have to draw it mighty quick, if you 
expect it to help you much. Now with me, I general¬ 
ly carry mine loose in the holster—it’s handier—I 
can get it quicker.” 

Suiting the action to the words he suddenly 
grasped the butt of his revolver with his left hand 
and drew it from its holster with one motion of his 
huge fist. 

“Put that gun away!” Sutton ordered. 

“Don’t lose your head, Mr. Superintendent. I was 
just showing how easy it is—if you know how.” He 
laughed meaningly, returning the revolver to its 
holster. “You see,” he continued after his mirth had 
subsided, “I always carry mine under my left arm 
so I can have my right free to work with a machete. 
Mighty handy in a crowd. Pve found it so a couple 
of times, but I can shoot with my right hand too.” 
He raised his head and yawned lazily. “Yes, it’s a 
good idea to be able to shoot with both hands,” he 
reflected. Lifting up his mighty arms he made a pil¬ 
low of his hands by interlocking the fingers behind 
his neck, upon which he rested his head. His great 
muscles rippled. 

The Superintendent turned and looked at Casan- 
dra. “What do you keep this bastard alive for? Why 
don’t you finish cutting his lousy throat? he snapped. 

“I thought my job was saving life,” I said. 



MACHETE 


98 

“You’re some life saver all right, all right,” he 
smirked. “The only thing you lack is the hole in your 
middle, and if this skunk lives he’ll probably put 
one there just to show you how he appreciates what 
you’ve done for him. Let him croak. Do the world 
a favor.” Sutton was troubled. 

“He’s out of the way for a time anyway—what’s 
the use worrying?” I ventured. 

“Yes, for a while,” he agreed. “But when he gets 
well, then what? If we happen to be in the middle 
of the crop, what then?” 

“That’s sort of sensible.” Watson interrupted 
suavely. “It would be better to fix things up now 
than to wait till later.” 

“Say!” Sutton was livid. He glared savagely at 
the giant, strange lights snapping in his eyes. “Total 
this up on your calculator and don’t subtract nothing, 
see—nothing. If you think we’re damn fools enough 
to let a few crooks—just a few lousy, yellow crooks, 
buffalo us, and thereby spread the dope that they can 
stick up the place at their pleasure, you’re wet as Mc- 
Ginty and he’s still at the bottom of the sea. Get it? 
Wet as McGinty. Why,” he spread his hands broad¬ 
ly, “if we stood for such a crazy thing we’d be cough¬ 
ing up graft forever—or at least as long as we stayed 
in business—might just as well give the place back 
to the monkeys. But let this penetrate, enter, sink 
in,” he pounded a palm with a fist for emphasis, 
“we’re not, see? And that ain’t all—besides five sol¬ 
diers we’ve got ten men armed with rifles circulating 
around just to see that nothing starts. And every one 


MACHETE 


99 


of them hates your guts because they know you’re 
trying to stop the crop and hurt their jobs. Get it! 
Hates your guts!” 

“You’re smart,” leered the negro with an effort at 
bravado. “But you wouldn’t have had the soldiers 
if my men hadn’t been moved. Just the same, you 
won’t start cutting this cane so soon as you figure, 
unless you get some sense before it’s too late.” 

“Maybe,” mused Sutton meaningly, “maybe!” 
Then turning to me, he said, “Patch the son-of-a- 
bitch up, Pills—don’t keep the boys waiting too long. 
There’s a lot of guys sharpening up their machetes to 
get him good, just as soon as you turn him loose. No 
one is going to keep men from working down here. 
This ain’t Chicago.” And waving his hand with a 
mocking gesture he and Bill strode though the open 
doorway into the quiet starlit night. 

“Smart fellow, your superintendent, but he’s got 
a lot to learn! ” sneered the giant as they left. “He’s 
sure got a lot to learn!” he mumbled. 

“Keep quiet if you want to stay here. Pm trying 
to get this man to sleep,” I ordered. 

“Oh, Pm staying all right, all right. You don’t get 
no chance to hurt my boss.” He raised his head and 
looked directly at me. 

“What do you mean?” I snapped, with an effort 
at self-control, for his implication was obvious. 

“Hold yourself! Hold yourself! The hot weather 
must be going to your head. I didn’t mean to insult,” 
he drawled. “But anyhow, don’t think you can fool 
me,” he added. 


100 


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“I’m not trying to fool you. And now if you want 
to stick around, keep quiet.” 

The negro grumbled something. Tilting his chair 
back against the wall he lit a black cigarette and 
blew smoke at the ceiling. Having finished putting 
the dressing in place I drew a chair up next the 
table and sat by the side of my patient. After a while 
Casandra slept. It was near midnight and everything 
was quiet. To illuminate my work I had placed a 
lamp on a chair next the table on which my patient 
lay. Turning the lamp down I put it on the floor. 

“Too must light for sound sleeping,” I explained 
softly. 

“You’re right,” whispered Watson. 

After a while I lifted off some cotton I had placed 
on Casandra’s neck for an absorption pad and looked 
at the stitches. The bleeding had stopped. 

“Want to see some good stitching—some real 
classical surgery?” I asked in a low voice. 

“Yes,” answered the negro. 

“Then be very quiet and come here.” 

The giant rose and moved silently to the opposite 
side of the table. 

“Look,” I said, “there’s no more bleeding.” 

The giant leaned close in order to see in the dim 
light and the butt of his big revolver, loose in its 
holster, was not six inches from my hand. Suddenly 
a wild idea took possession of me. What if I should 
fail? The thought was numbing. 

“You have to look close in order to see,” I said 
as steadily as I could, though I felt sure my voice 


MACHETE 


101 


must be trembling. I pointed with my left index 
finger to the wound to attract his full attention. The 
negro leaned a little closer and when he did I sud¬ 
denly grasped the butt of his revolver and lifted it 
easily from its holster. 

“What you doing?” Watson gasped, straightening 
up as if struck. 

“Getting all set to drill you the first false move 
you make,” I said as firmly as I could. 

“Why, hell, Doc, you and I is friends, if you only 
knew it,” he exclaimed, surprised. Watson had nerve. 

“Sure we’re friends as long as you do exactly what 
I tell you,” I answered. 

“But Doc ...” He protested. 

“Keep quiet—absolutely quiet. That’s order num¬ 
ber one.” He stopped talking. 

Having the negro walk in front of me with his 
hands above his head, I took him to Sutton’s house 
which was just in back of mine. 

“What’s up?” called the superintendent from his 
bed when I kicked at his door. 

“I’ve got a present for you,” I answered. 

When his flash light revealed the negro standing 
with his hands above his head and me covering him 
with the revolver he burst into a surprised laugh. 

“Come in—do come in,” he invited. “But now 
that we’ve got the bastard, what are we going to do 
with him?” 

“Why, Bill’s idea—get rid of him. With him out 
of the way and the other thief sick, there won’t be 
any trouble makers to lead our cane cutters away.” 


102 


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“Pills!” He looked gravely at me. “Not having 
you chaperone the livestock is the mules’ disappoint¬ 
ment!” He pulled on his clothes and hurried off to 
find Bill. 

When the two of them returned we held a confer¬ 
ence at which it was decided to send Watson down the 
river in a cayuco with two of our most trusted men to 
act as guards. When they got near the coast they 
were to release him and return his machete. It is im¬ 
possible to penetrate the jungle without a machete . 

It was just before dawn that the cayuco started 
from the river landing. Watson was seated amidship 
with his feet securely chained together. The chief 
engineer suggested that the chain might have a lot to 
do with keeping the cayuco from tipping over. One 
of the guards was armed with the giant’s big re¬ 
volver. 

“So long, Smoky—we’ll miss you, big boy—and 
how we’ll miss you!” called Sutton happily as the 
cayuco started into the current. “Lots of luck—I 
hope they hang a wreath on your door before Christ¬ 
mas.” 

The negro turned the upper part of his body so 
that he was facing the shore. “You’re smart all right, 
but you got a lot to learn, and some of these days 
you’ll find out!” he rasped. 

“Sure, raincloud—come back and open a school— 
bring a lot of friends with you—a lot of good friends 
—we’ll be expecting you,” the superintendent ban¬ 
tered. 



A Patient who was never sick, 
but loved to talk 


A Small Patient Arrives 


The Plantation School 


The Plantation Belle 


Santiago and His Friend 







MACHETE 


103 


The cayuco moved away from the shore, a sinister 
shadow receding silently in the gloom. 

“By God, you’ll learn!” came a snarl from the 
darkness. A mighty fist rose and shook threateningly. 
“You’ll learn, god damn you!” The tone was half a 
moan, half a desperate savage wail. The cayuco slid 
into the current and became part of the dark. 

At daylight a few of the cane cutters came to visit 
Casandra, and finding him resting comfortably, stood 
about the factory clearing, talking in an aimless man¬ 
ner. As Bill had prophesied, there was very little 
trouble in straightening out the grievance which they 
had been led to imagine existed and by afternoon 
they were going happily about making preparations 
to start cutting cane in the morning. To celebrate the 
commencement of harvest we arranged to hold a big 
fiesta that night. Bill raised steam in several of the 
boilers and when darkness fell he started the electri¬ 
cal generating machine and turned on the electric 
lights. The place glowed like Broadway. Just before 
dawn the cane cutters left for the fields amid salvos 
of exploding skyrockets. They sang a gay song of 
their native highlands as they marched along the 
trail, strung out like a ragamuffin army. There was 
not a grumbler among them. 

Shortly after daylight the launch arrived with my 
successor. Sutton, Bill and I formed a reception com¬ 
mittee and escorted the doctor to his dispensary and 
residence. Casandra still reposed on the table as com¬ 
fortable as we could make him. The doctor was 
amused when we explained his presence, and im- 


104 


MACHETE 


mediately started going over my work to see if there 
was anything more that could be done for him. 

“What are we going to do with this fellow when 
he gets well?” asked Sutton. 

“Don’t worry—he’ll be good—he’s too intelligent 
not to,” ventured the chief engineer emphatically. 
Casandra stared unconcernedly at the ceiling. 

He seemed to have lost lots of interest since his 
bodyguard had left. “If he starts anything again I’ll 
do some more promoting,” added Bill coyly. 

“What?” gasped the superintendent so earnestly 
that the doctor looked up from his work. 

“Sure,” he nodded, “I’m sorry he got cut up—I 
didn’t intend to have that happen. But when I told 
a few of the old men just what caused all the trouble 
they were mighty sore. They’ve worked hard to get 
the place started—we all have.” 

“Well, Chief,” Sutton’s eyes sparkled, “you might 
not come from Berumda but you know your onions 
—you certainly know your onions,” he smiled enthu¬ 
siastically, “you and Tex Rickard!” 


CHAPTER X 

Fiesta Nights and Flashing Machetes 

At ten the foreman rushed a man to the dispen¬ 
sary who had been bitten by a sordo . The doctor hur¬ 
riedly applied a tourniquet to keep as much of the 
venom from entering the blood stream as possible. 
He opened the man’s hand at the point where he 
had been bitten and injected permanganate of potash 
solution into and about the wound. Then he had him 
lie down and gave him a big drink of rum. His hand 
was swollen and painful next day, but in two weeks 
he was able to return to work. 

The cane cutters killed eight sordos the first day 
of harvest. Three of them were just under seven feet 
in length. I have only known one man to die from 
a sordo bite. He refused to be injected with perman¬ 
ganate solution. He lived for twenty-two hours after 
being bitten. 

There is a small brown snake with bright yellow 
spots—so it was described to me—which the natives 
call the “Hand of Death.” This is conceded to be the 
most dangerous reptile on the Isthmus. Fortunately, 
it is very uncommon. I have never seen one. 

The foreman of a woods party, clearing land for 
cane planting, had one of his men bitten by one of 
these snakes. There was no permanganate of potash 
in their camp and it was too far to the plantation to 
get him there in time to be of any help. The fore- 
105 


106 


MACHETE 


man had a man apply a tourniquet while he opened 
the man’s arm at the location of the bite and squeezed 
out all the blood and poison he could. Then he 
sucked the wound clean and had the man lie down 
and keep perfectly still. In about twenty minutes a 
little blood began to seep from the corner of his 
mouth. In about half an hour he developed a slight 
nosebleed. Shortly after blood began to gush from 
his nose and mouth. In about an hour blood began 
to seep from his ears and some of his pores. Half an 
hour later he died, a horrible sight, lying in a pool 
of his own blood. The venom of the “Hand of 
Death” stimulates the heart action to such an extent 
that the forced blood breaks through sound mem¬ 
branes and causes death from hemorrhage. 

There are other serpents on Tehuantepec whose 
venom acts in the same manner, though none of them 
is nearly so dangerous. Among this classification is 
a snake locally known as “Bone Tail.” I took care of 
a man bitten by a “Bone Tail.” He did not reach the 
dispensary till fifteen minutes after he was bitten. 

“I have just been bitten by a ‘Bone Tail , 5 ” he 
greeted calmly. “I know it was a ‘Bone Tail , 5 Senor y 
because I killed the snake . 55 He was entirely com¬ 
posed. The fact that he was facing a rather sudden 
death seemed not to worry him. His conscience must 
have been clear. I immediately applied a tourniquet, 
opened his foot at the location of the bite and in¬ 
jected permanganate solution. In the morning his 
foot was swollen and painful but his pulse was nor- 


MACHETE 


107 


mal. In two weeks he was back at work none the 
worse for his experience. 

At eleven the first train of loaded cane cars pulled 
into the mill yard amid salvos of exploding skyrock¬ 
ets. The train presented a fantastic appearance. The 
crew had decorated the cars and locomotive with long 
streamers of bright colored tissue paper which flut¬ 
tered tantalizingly in the warm wind. The factory 
hands stood about and cheered. The locomotive 
driver tied his engine’s whistle open. The fireman 
clanged the bell as if his very life depended on it. 
Some one pulled the whistle cord in the factory and 
the mill whistle screamed like a soul in torment. The 
din was deafening. There was much excitement. The 
crop was started. All afternoon trains kept arriving 
and by dark the yard was full. Promptly at eight Bill 
opened the throttle of the giant engine which sup¬ 
plied power for the factory machinery and the great 
rollers started turning over. A crew of men with a 
winch and long cable drew the loaded cars from the 
yard up to an automatic unloading device which rap¬ 
idly emptied them and dumped the cane stalks out 
upon a mechanical conveyor. The conveyor drew the 
stalks up to the rolls in a steady stream where they 
passed between various sets of rollers which crushed 
out the sweet juice. The juice was pumped into tanks 
at the top of the mill from where it passed to evapor¬ 
ating vats by force of gravity, and on through various 
manufacturing processes to at last flow into storage 
bins clean, white, granulated sugar. 

The hot spring wind roared out of the south. Tiny 


108 


MACHETE 


black gnats swarmed. There was no more rain. The 
sun blistered. The land baked. The wind lifted the 
tin roof from a small warehouse and dropped it on 
some workmen. Two of them were killed. The rush 
of harvesting continued night and day. The cut¬ 
ters toiled in the heat and wind, cutting the cane 
stalks and trimming off the tops with one continuous 
motion of their machetes . The loaders gathered up 
the stalks in bundles and trotted to the waiting cars. 

Sutton seemed perpetually at work. Dawn found 
him in the fields coaxing some of the cutters, cursing 
others, but hurrying all. The afternoons he spent in 
his office checking over endless details. In the eve¬ 
nings he wrote letters and totaled the various reports 
till far into the night. He never seemed to tire. Cas- 
andra, who had accepted our hospitality while his 
wounds were healing, came to me one morning as I 
was leaving the dispensary for rounds. 

“Beunas dias> Sehor>” he smiled a little uncertainly. 
“My wounds are healed.” As if to illustrate, he 
moved his head from side to side with quick jerky 
movements. 

“Pm glad you’re well again,” I said as pleasantly 
as I could, for personally I felt no animosity toward 
him. My demeanor seemed to give him assurance for 
he moved closer. 

“ Sehor he started apologetically, “I am sorry for 
the trouble I caused. I am not dishonest, but we of 
Mexico have different ways of doing things from you 
North Americans.” He paused and looked at me ex¬ 
pectantly. 


MACHETE 


109 


“Si, I understand,” I said. 

“I like it here,” he smiled wistfully. “Would you 
use your influence with the Senor Suferintendente 
to help me secure a position with the plantation.?” 

I was somewhat surprised, but the man’s earnest¬ 
ness impressed me, so I agreed to take the matter up 
with Sutton and see what could be done. 

“Muchas grarias, Senor . You have been very kind 
to me here,” he bowed, in a manner which left no 
doubt as to his sincerity. 

“What’s the trouble—is the heat getting you, or 
are you just naturally going nuts?” muttered Sut¬ 
ton when I approached him on the subject as he 
gulped a hurried lunch. 

“No, I really mean it. I think the man will work 
out all right if you will give him a chance.” 

“Give him hell!” grumbled the superintendent 
derisively. 

“But Sutton ...” 

“Say!” he interrupted, “I wouldn’t have that 
slimy skunk work here for anything. He makes me 
nervous. I’ll be looking under the bed before I go to 
sleep if he sticks around much longer. Say good-bye 
to him. Tell him to go hunt up his smoky behemouth 
and start a revolution or something so he can rob a 
bank honorably. We work here, and what money we 
get we earn.” 

“O. K., Mr. Superintendent, I’ll tell him,” I an¬ 
swered. 

That evening Sutton came to the dispensary where 


110 


MACHETE 


I was helping the doctor finish up a hard day’s work. 

“Is the skunk here yet?” he asked. 

“If you mean Casandra, yes,” I answered. I had 
seen him during the afternoon. 

“There’s lots of skunks here—everytime I pass the 
Oaxaca village I wish I had a gas mask—but he is 
the skunk ,” he smiled. 

“He’s leaving in the morning. I delivered your 
ultimatum.” 

“You know, Pills,” he cut in, “I was thinking the 
matter over this afternoon. You might be right. He 
might have turned honest.” He looked at me ques- 
tioningly. “Do you really think so?” 

“Sure. He might see that it’s better business to be 
square or possibly he may be telling the truth, in 
which case the whole trouble was caused by different 
ways of doing things,” I answered. 

“There’s something in what you say, all right,” 
said Sutton thoughtfully. “We can make good use of 
him as a labor agent and save the place money by 
getting him on a flat salary, if you think he’ll not 
try to start a war or something.” 

“Of course we’ll have to watch him and be very 
careful,” I suggested. 

“I had a talk with Bill this afternoon and Bill 
agrees with you. Bill says he’ll give him a job in the 
factory, where he can keep his eye on him. Then if 
we find he’s turned square, we’ll offer him the other 
proposition. What do you say?” He looked at me 
questioningly. 

“O. K. with me,” I said. 




MACHETE 


111 


“O. K. then; I’ll look him up and spread the glad 
tidings—but watch out for snags,” he warned. 

So Casandra joined our working force. 

‘Til make good, all right,” he assured me, when 
next I saw him. And he did. Later we trusted him 
with many important details and I never heard a 
question as to his dependability. He proved a great 
diplomat and his council was always sought in 
straightening out any friction that came up among 
our laborers. 

While we were harvesting there was constant dan¬ 
gers of cane fires. Day and night the fields were 
patrolled by fire guards composed of our most trusted 
men. Each carried a businesslike carbine in addition to 
the usual machete. They were much respected. In 
their presence smokers carefully covered the stubs of 
their cigarettes with earth. Due to their effectiveness 
we had no serious fires. 

The last night of the harvest the workmen cele¬ 
brated with another fiesta. In the morning the dead 
body of a man was found behind the sugarmill. 
There were two stab wounds in the body. The man 
had been murdered. The natives believe that each 
participant in a killing is equally guilty who inflicts a 
wound and can therefore be trusted to keep a secret. 
Therefore we felt sure that two people had com¬ 
mitted the deed. 

Next day one of the murderers was arrested in 
Santa Lucrecia. He readily confessed to his part in 
the crime and gave as his reason that the murdered 
man had paid too much attention to his woman. The 


112 


MACHETE 


authorities put him in jail. Within a week some 
friends bribed the jailer to let him escape. It de¬ 
veloped that this was the seventh murder he had 
taken part in. Homicide had become a habit. It was 
rumored that after his escape he went to Chiapas and 
joined a band of outlaws where he could indulge in 
his hobby to his heart’s content. 

I had been in the jungle fifteen months and a va¬ 
cation was due, so bidding my friends good-bye, I 
started for the States and New York. 

“Say hello for me, and tell them to have the police 
band start practicing. Next year I’ll be coming 
north,” said Sutton in parting. 

“Why not now?” I inquired. 

“Not this year,” he shook his head. “Im going 
down and give Guatemala the once over. I believe in 
traveling and seeing things.” 

My launch left for Santa Lucrecia at daylight but 
it was not too early for the entire three members of 
the orchestra to join the group at the landing that 
had come to bid me good-bye. It was a gloomy leave- 
taking. The band played a doleful farewell as the 
boat started. I looked back at the well-known chim¬ 
ney thrusting its tall bulk out of the jungle tangle 
and the friends standing silently on the shore, and 
realized I had been very happy at the plantation. 

At Vera Cruz I boarded the steamship Mexico for 
the voyage to New York. I thought at first that I 
should take the train north, but the hot dusty ride 
from Santa Lucrecia changed my mind. There’s no 
dust at sea and there is a comfortable berth to stretch 


MACHETE 


113 


out full length in and snooze any time day or night. 
And scudding puflfs of soft white muslin, which are 
clouds. And fragrant breezes and wide inviting decks 
to walk upon. There’s the sea itself, deep and blue 
and mysterious. Our ship called at Progreso, Yucatan, 
to pick up passengers and cargo. It was the ship phy¬ 
sician’s first trip into the tropics and he could not 
speak any Spanish so he invited me to accompany 
him to shore to act as interpreter while he exam¬ 
ined the oncoming passengers. 

“Let’s get a drink before we start the grind,” he 
invited, as we were passing up the street on the way 
to the steamship company’s office. 

“Thanks,” I answered. It was a hot, humid morn¬ 
ing and I didn’t need much coaxing. 

“You know,” smiled the doctor as we leaned com¬ 
fortably against the polished bar, “I like the freedom 
of this part of the world. Good booze—all you want 
of it—it’s delicious, this freedom—lots of time to do 
anything you want in.” 

“It’s nice, all right,” I agreed honestly. 

“It’s fine—it’s glorious—it’s wonderful! ” he ges¬ 
tured, growing more emphatic. “It’s marvelous lis¬ 
tening to the polished glasses clinking on this shining 
bar and the waves breaking on the outer bar.” The 
bartender filled two more long glasses and set them 
down in front of us. “It’s inspiring, god damn if it 
isn’t!” he sighed. He certainly enjoyed freedom. 
After an hour of freedom I had a struggle to get 
him to leave and come to the office where a long line 


114 


MACHETE 


of passengers was waiting impatiently for the official 
health examination. 

“What’s the matter? Are you downhearted?” he 
protested, when I reminded him that it was long past 
the time the health examination was expected to start. 
It was a greater struggle to keep him awake and get 
through with the official business. Finally, the busi¬ 
ness finished, I had to hunt up the assistant purser, 
a bright youth with laughing Irish eyes, who helped 
load him on the tender when it came time to go off 
to the ship. As we struggled with our staggering bur¬ 
den past some gentle people of Yucatan, the purser 
crimsoned. His uniform represented more to him 
than a suit of working clothes. For the next two days 
the doctor remained locked in his stateroom. Fortu¬ 
nately no one was sick—not even sea sick. 

I decided to spend part of my vacation taking the 
summer course in bacteriology at Columbia Univer¬ 
sity. This was the only course of medical training 
which was open during the summer session. I had 
become interested in practical medicine and this 
afforded an opportunity to increase my information. 
Dr. McKinley, in charge of the course, was a most 
interesting and capable man who made every effort to 
help me secure the sort of information that would 
be of most benefit to me in the work I was interested 
in. It was at Dr. McKinley’s suggestion that I met 
Dr. Allen O. Whipple, of the Presbyterian Hospital. 
It is only necessary to meet Dr. Whipple to under¬ 
stand why the world of medicine has acknowledged 
him one of its leaders. He is a fine doctor—hundreds 


MACHETE 


115 


of people know that—but he is a finer man. He ar¬ 
ranged for me to spend part of every afternoon in 
the accident ward of the hospital and put me under 
the direct charge of Dr. Wilber and Dr. Sloan, two 
graduates of Harvard Medical School. These two 
gentlemen, by their patient and never failing kind¬ 
ness and interest taught me something of minor sur¬ 
gery. Their efforts, indirectly, helped to alleviate lots 
of human suffering. 


CHAPTER XI 

Horrors! Guadalupe! Another Aztec Is Born 

“Don Carlos!” implored a voice. The inky gloom 
which precedes dawn blotted out all sight of the 
person who called from my door. 

“Don Carlos!” The tone was pitiful; the words 
a supplication. The beam of my flashlight revealed a 
wrinkled peon woman standing outside my screen. 
Tears coursed down her honest old face. 

“Don Carlos!” There was tragedy in the way she 
spoke, tragedy and longing. 

“Si, Dona Maria,” I answered. I knew her well. 

“Hurry, Don Carlos—hurry, please—my Guada¬ 
lupe is sick— Ai, Senor, she is very sick,” she pleaded 
appealingly. 

I remembered Guadalupe. I had met her one noon 
as I rushed through the peon village on my way to a 
belated lunch. 

“Venga aqui, please, Don Carlos,” Dona Maria had 
called from her doorway as I hastened past. 

“What do you want?” I had grumbled. The day 
was particularly hot and I was tired and irritable. 

“For a minute, please—only a minute,” she had 
smiled soothingly. 

I had been on the point of telling her, as I was 
already late, that if her business was of not much im¬ 
portance I would rather call after lunch, when I 
checked myself. Somebody might be sick. 

116 


MACHETE 


117 


“Just a moment,” she appealed. Her face was 
wreathed in smiles. Clearly no one could be ill. 

“Well! ” I paused. Her smile and natural gracious¬ 
ness had entirely banished my bad humor. 

“I want you to meet my child—my Guadalupe,” 
she had enlightened me. Her natural erectness 
seemed to be accentuated. She was proud of Guada¬ 
lupe. 

“Gosh!” I had thought to myself, my irritability 
returning at the apparently uncalled for delay. 

She had turned and nodded to someone inside the 
hut. In response a girl had appeared. She was tall and 
slender and graceful. Her body was well propor¬ 
tioned and supple—she was strong with the pliant 
strength of a willow. Her jet black hair hung from 
her head in two long tidy braids. About her neck was 
a chain of gold pieces, evenly matched as to size. Her 
head was stooped. She was very shy. When I ad¬ 
vanced she held out a firm brown hand. 

“I’m glad to meet you,” I had greeted. Her 
mother looked amused. 

“Don Carlos is not a cannibal—he does not eat 
people,” she had reproved. The girl obediently raised 
her head. She looked like a painting—a beautiful, 
flowerlike, painting from the pages of an elaborate 
history of early Mexico. Her picturesque native dress 
was scrupulously clean and fitted her well. In spite 
of her sinewy strength she was gentle. Her large 
black eyes were fathomless and fascinating and kind. 
She had smiled timorously as her self-assurance 
gained. She was beautiful. Now she was sick. 


118 


MACHETE 


“Hurry, Don Carlos!” 

I yawned. I didn’t intend to dally, but yesterday 
I had returned from my vacation and it was hard to 
realize that I was once more back at work. I quickly 
drew on some clothing over my pajamas. There was 
no time to waste. 

“Hurry, Don Carlos, hurry,” she repeated breath¬ 
lessly, when I paused to gather up some medicines 
and a small kit of instruments. Dona Marie was 
worried and very excited. 

The heavy mists of early morning hung over the 
land like a shroud as we trotted down the path that 
led to the peon quarters. As we neared her hut spots 
of light showed through its palm-thatched walls and 
the hum of conversation became audible. When we 
entered a few women stood aside respectfully— 
hopefully. They loved Guadalupe. In the center of 
the floor, the flickering light of a smoky oil torch 
revealed the figure of a young girl, lying nude upon 
a straw sleeping mat. In her countenance was re¬ 
flected a sublimeness which makes of agony a holy 
thing. Guadalupe was about to become a mother. 
Her baby was already partially born. It was one of 
those cases which practitioners of obstetrics call inver¬ 
sion. In such cases special instruments are necessary 
and we had no obstetrical instruments on the planta¬ 
tion. My knowledge of such matters has never pro¬ 
gressed beyond a practical idea of a few rudimentary 
details and I realized that my best efforts would be 
impotent. There was nothing I could do alone, so I 
sent for a native midwife. Together we struggled for 


MACHETE 


119 


the best part of an hour without accomplishing any¬ 
thing. The girl’s pulse was fluttering. She was sink¬ 
ing. Something had to be done quickly. The midwife 
rose to her feet. She was a tall woman with a firm 
chin and steady eyes. She looked worried and de¬ 
termined. 

“Guadalupe’s sick, Don Carlos,” she murmured 
softly but her glance never faltered. She clasped her 
thin brown hands nervously in front of her. There 
was life in those hands—life or death. I understood 
my own inability. 

“She certainly is,” I agreed sincerely, with an 
effort at calmness. 

“Something,” she paused and her jaw set de¬ 
cidedly—“something must be done.” Her brow 
wrinkled. “Something must be done,” she repeated 
absently. She was thinking. 

“Yes,” I concurred, as cheerfully as I could 
though the blood in my veins seemed turned to lead. 
I felt hopeless. 

“Keep her heart action up,” she commanded. 
There was a new note in her voice. She looked more 
determined. 

Obediently I administered a simple heart stimu¬ 
lant. There was nothing more I could do. 

The midwife gathered the women present into a 
circle about the girl. With a concerted effort they 
threw her body into the air, catching it with a rough 
jerk just before it crashed to the floor. My eyes were 
blinded with visions and horror. An icy languor 
chilled my vitals and held me motionless. Something 


120 


MACHETE 


about the situation recalled the legends of ancient 
Mexico, long, long before the coming of the con- 
quistadoresy when the prettiest girls were clothed in 
dainty garments of trailing feathers and led to the 
brink of sacred wells, there to leap willingly and un¬ 
afraid to a death in the consecrated waters. There to 
die gladly in an effort to appease the displeasure of 
some god of their people. There to perish bravely 
for an ideal. Some half dozen times the women re¬ 
peated this operation. Finally the infant’s body was 
torn free from that of its mother. With a machete 
heated red hot, the midwife severed the umbilical 
cord. 

The nauseating odor of burning human flesh filled 
the air. The fire daggers of sunrise stabbed through 
the bloodstained morning mists. Another Aztec was 
born. I led a slim youth who whimpered, from the 
shack. It proved a very hard matter to see the mother 
of his child suffer so. Not a groan, not a protest had 
escaped the girl but her big wondering eyes filled 
when they saw the tiny discolored body lying on the 
clean remnant of a wornout shirt. The new-born was 
dead. 

“Guadalupe,” I stuttered in a clumsy attempt to 
sympathize “Guadalupe ...” 

“At, Don Carlos, it was nothing,” she interrupted 
weakly. “Nothing—the pain—if my beautiful boy 
had only lived! ” She turned her head and regarded 
me with her great gentle eyes. They were full of 
sorrow and tears. 

“Guadalupe,” I started again in a further attempt 


MACHETE 


121 


at comfort. “You were named for a Saint—a great 
Saint—and I know that from her place in Heaven, 
Saint Guadalupe is standing now with outstretched 
arms to welcome there the soul of your little son.” 
The great kind eyes searched me. Consolation was 
futile. I felt as if I might have desecrated the Lord’s 
Prayer. 

“Ai si, Don Carlos, Saint Guadalupe was a great 
Saint. The Patron Saint of all Mexico,” she sobbed 
brokenly. 

For an hour we worked with our meager equip¬ 
ment to stop a hemorrhage. No gleaming hospital 
room; no white-clad thoughtful nurses; no array of 
polished instruments; no well-informed physicians. 
The rancid fumes of hardwood smoke and the dusty 
little hut. Some of the women washed the little body 
and when it was clean laid it on the bottom of an 
overturned cracker box. Dona Maria placed four 
candles about the improvised bier and wrapped the 
tiny corpse in a fresh white cloth. Guadalupe wept. 
Her heart was broken. Her first-born was dead. 

“Ai si —Saint Guadalupe was a great Saint,” she 
sobbed. The little hut seemed like a cathedral. 

Outside a few skyrockets sizzed heavenward to ex¬ 
plode with loud bangs and proclaim to the universe 
that an unwonted event had transpired. Inside the 
women prepared food for the mourners who would 
soon begin arriving. The midwife came with a cup of 
steaming coffee to where I sat numbed by the experi¬ 
ence. There were deep lines under her eyes. She 
looked tired. It had been an ordeal for her too. 


122 


MACHETE 


“This will refresh you,” she said, handing me the 
coffee. I thanked her and sipped the scalding brew 
It was refreshing. 

“To you Americans such a method of surgery un¬ 
doubtedly seems harsh—even brutal,” she ventured. 
I nodded in mute agreement. I felt too done to talk. 

“It’s an old method of procedure —muy antiguo” 
she explained. “It has been taught to the women of 
the Zapotecs for many, many years. There are other 
methods that are more humane—less painful—when 
there is plenty of time. This is for use only in ex¬ 
treme emergency—to save a life. It is hard—you 
might say cruel. It has failed to save the lives of 
many women, but it is better to attempt than to let a 
woman die—a good woman.” 

I agreed with a firm conviction that if I had beer 
Guadalupe I should rather have died. Knowing what 
I faced, I should have begged to die. I wondered 
how many women of my own race could or would 
have endured such an ordeal—even with the prospect 
it afforded of saving their lives or of being the means 
of giving life to a child. 

The slim youth came with some bottles of aguar¬ 
diente and, picking up a home-made guitar, seated 
himself on the floor and started a melancholy croon¬ 
ing of some verses from the Bible. Mourners started 
to gather. I realized that I could be of no more serv¬ 
ice for the time being, so I gave Dona Maria the 
few coins I had in my pocket to help with the funeral 
and started for my house. 


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123 


Late in the afternoon I went to see how Guada¬ 
lupe was getting on. The hut was full of mourners 
who with the assistance of a plentiful supply of 
aguardiente had transformed the occasion into some¬ 
thing akin to a celebration. How the suffering girl 
could possibly endure the drunken laughter and the 
ribald conversation I couldn’t understand. The tiny 
body still rested on the cracker box, only now it was 
partly covered by indiscriminately placed flowers. 

“Si” muttered Guadalupe bravely, when I in¬ 
quired if she felt any better. I think she tried to 
smile. The drawn lips quivered. The great gentle 
eyes were red—red with sorrow. 


CHAPTER XII 

Surgical Operations and Mystic Rites 

“What’s sunk you, Pills? You look blue as a prize 
sapphire!” It was Sutton who spoke. I had just re¬ 
turned from a visit to Guadalupe and I felt entirely 
distraught. 

“Pm glad she’s doing better,” he ventured kind¬ 
ly, when I explained. He had been back from his 
vacation for two weeks when I returned. He was 
waiting on the platform in Santa Lucrecia when I 
got off the train. 

“Hello! How’s every little thing?” he greeted 
cheerfully. There was so much to talk about that he 
had come in from the plantation to meet me. 

“Hot Dog! How that baby can hoof! How she 
can make her feet cut up,” he had exclaimed warm¬ 
ly, when I told him I had seen a play in which one of 
his favorite dancers was a star. “How she can hoof,” 
he had repeated meditatively. Broadway was far, far 
away. 

“I suppose you had a great time in Guatemala?” I 
had asked. 

“Not so hot—not so hot,” he had replied. “It’s a 
nice little burg, sort of quiet and historic and com¬ 
fortable. But the women wear short sleeves and don’t 
shave under their arms. It ain’t got that big-city 
touch.” 

Sutton stood before me and smiled. “It’s too bad, 
124 


MACHETE 


125 


Pills—just too bad—she’s a nice little kid and it’s 
hard to think of her suffering so.” His smile wavered 
and he looked earnest. 

“Let me know if I can do anything to help,” he 
volunteered. He was earnest and thoughtful and 
always ready to help those under his charge in any 
constructive way. It was late in the afternoon so the 
two of us continued on our way to the tienda for a 
chat and highball before supper. As we passed my 
house a young woman who was waiting for me ap¬ 
proached. 

“My husband is very sick, Senor y ” she informed 
me expectantly. 

Sutton looked disgusted. He wanted to talk about 
Broadway. 

“Being the Pills gets you a break that’s sure a 
fracture,” he complained as he continued toward the 
tienda for a lonesome highball. 

Her husband was sick. He was very thin. His eyes 
were sunken and listless and his breathing labored. 
He was dying of chronic dysentery. Dysentery is 
common in the tropics. During my vacation I had 
studied something of the disease and had learned 
that in its various manifestations it is caused by m : 
crobes of the same general classification. Upon my 
return to Vera Cruz I spent some time going over 
different medicines with the secretary of a large 
drug store. I found a product of Germany which 
purported to destroy the microbes of dysentery and 
thereby, by eliminating the cause, cure the malady. I 
purchased enough of the medicine to give it a fair 


126 


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test. With this medicine I treated my patient and in 
less than two weeks every symptom of the disease 
had been eradicated. The man developed a ravenous 
appetite. I had a struggle keeping him from making 
himself sick again from over-eating. His strength 
quickly returned and he went back to work. 

I ordered a plentiful supply of the medicine. Dys¬ 
entery was no longer a terror at the plantation. I had 
known something of the suffering our American sol¬ 
diers underwent from this disease during the Span¬ 
ish war. Had the malady been understood at that 
time and a proper method for combating it been 
developed, untold suffering and the lives of manv 
brave men would have been saved for future use¬ 
fulness. Then the resources of a great nation were 
only partially effective. Now—thirty years after— 
six weeks of well directed study and a modern medi¬ 
cine had entirely transformed a scourge. Such is 
the progress of science. 

Within two days after my return the news had 
penetrated to the most remote hut. The mother of 
one of our plow-boys trudged in from her outlying 
shack to tell me that her son was sick. 

“It’s fine to have you back, Don Carlos,” she wel¬ 
comed, placing her arm affectionately around my 
shoulders. She was a most demonstrative old woman. 
“Ai, Don Carlos, my poor son is very sick,” she 
moaned. “For five days he hasn’t eaten, pobre nino” 
She held up her hand and carefully counted on her 
fingers the number of days he had been unable to 
eat. “For five days no food,” she groaned. She was 


MACHETE 


127 


very worried. “AH And for all that time he has suf¬ 
fered with a very sore throat and burned with a high 
fever. Ai mi nino! It is terrible—terrible!” She re¬ 
garded me wistfully. The vision of a poor boy lying 
dead in a path flashed before me and I recalled the 
youth who had died of diphtheria. The thought was 
most discomforting. 

Together we hurried to her hut. Miguel, the plow 
boy, was very weak. He appeared to have a very bad 
cold. I made a very careful examination of his throat 
but found no sign of patches so concluded that he 
was suffering from some other ailment. Not know¬ 
ing just what the matter was, I treated him for grip, 
intending to observe the results. The next morning he 
indicated a slight improvement so I felt I was pur¬ 
suing the proper course. He continued to improve 
and when I visited him a few days later I found 
him propped up in bed with a Zapotecan medicine 
woman taking steps to prevent the return of his sick¬ 
ness. Though I had understood that the Zapotecs, 
like most primitive people, believe in the super¬ 
natural power of charms and mystic rites, this was 
the first time that I was actually to witness any of 
their cabalistic ceremonies. I knew the priestess. She 
had often been to me for medicine. She was unusu¬ 
ally intelligent, and impressed me as being extremely 
sincere. She believed in the power of plants and 
medicines as well as the power of charms and mystic 
rites to heal and prevent disease. The hereditary cus¬ 
toms of the Zapotecs constitute their principal beliefs 
and it is no harder to understand why faith in an 


128 


MACHETE 


ancient custom should prove of benefit to them than 
it is to understand why the sound of a well-known 
hymn should be of comfort and cheer to us of North 
America. 

“Enter, Senor,” welcomed the priestess, when I 
appeared in the doorway. There was nothing in her 
manner to indicate that she considered my presence 
an intrusion. 

“Ai si y Don Carlos! Come in,” called Miguel. 

“I would be very glad to come later,” I suggested. 

“No; come right in; your being here does not in¬ 
terfere,” assured the priestess. She evidently ac¬ 
cepted my arrival as a matter of course. She was 
holding two bottles of different colored liquids, one 
in either hand. Wetting her index finger from the 
contents of one bottle, she sketched a weird design 
on the youth’s forehead and chest at the same time 
crooning a slow chant in the ancient Zapotecan 
tongue. This completed, she filled her mouth from 
the other bottle and sprayed his head, throat and 
chest. Alternately she repeated both procedures sev¬ 
eral times. This constituted the entire ceremony so 
far as I was ever able to learn. The sincerity of the 
participants was impressive. The boy believed that 
something was being done to help him. Undoubtedly 
he was helped. His recovery was rapid. 

A middle-aged woman, the sister of one of our 
foremen, came to the dispensary, complaining of a 
severe pain in her ankle. I carefully examined the 
offending member and found no swelling and noth¬ 
ing to indicate the presence of any inflammation. Her 


MACHETE 


129 


ankle functioned perfectly and she walked without 
pain or inconvenience. 

“I can’t find anything wrong, Senora,” I reported 
after the examination. She was apparently very dis¬ 
appointed. 

“Ai> Don Carlos, but if nothing is wrong why do 
I suffer so?” she asked, perplexed. 

“You walk without inconvenience and you have no 
pain when I move your ankle,” I explained. 

“You don’t understand,” she brightened. “It is 
at night, Senor , that I suffer—always at night—after 
I go to sleep.” She regarded me seriously. 

Every morning she arrived punctiliously at day¬ 
light with a heart-rending description of the tor¬ 
tures she had endured during the night. I soon ex¬ 
hausted my small information in an ineffectual effort 
to bring her relief and became convinced that if there 
was anything the matter, nothing I could possibly do 
would help her. 

“Why don’t you go to the doctor in Port of Mexi¬ 
co?” I suggested. 

“I do not wish to go to the doctor in Port of Mexi¬ 
co,” she informed with emphasis. 

“But Senora ...” 

“I do not wish to go to the doctor in Port of 
Mexico,” she repeated, interrupting in a tone and 
manner that left no doubt. 

“I’ve done everything I can,” I explained. She 
contemplated the ceiling thoughtfully. 

“Everything?” she questioned, shifting her gaze 
to me. 


130 


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“Everything.” I answered. 

“Bueno” She chewed her thumb and meditated. 
She looked depressed. 

“Isn’t there some operation that might bring me 
relief?” she suggested. 

Sunrise! The songs of the birds! Cold showers! 
The tantalizing aroma of freshly boiled coffee! 
That’s what those words meant to me. I was des¬ 
perate. 

“Yes, Senora, there is indeed a most painful and 
intricate operation which might prove successful,” 
I explained slowly, trying hard to reflect the gravity 
of the situation in my demeanor. 

“At!” she sighed. There was relief in her tone— 
relief and actual delight. “Could you not perform it 
right away?” she asked—eagerly. The gory prospect 
didn’t frighten her. 

I spread out my few instruments on a fresh towel 
with as much dignity as I could assume and carefully 
scrubbed her ankle with some warm water that had 
been plentifully perfumed with a strong-smelling 
disinfectant. She was much impressed and noted 
every detail. 

“Ai y mi doctor,” she sighed reverently—approv¬ 
ingly. 

I painted a portion of the scrubbed surface with 
iodine and sprayed it liberally with ethyl chloride. 

“Please turn your head away, this is painful, 
Senora—terribly painful and very gruesome,” I di¬ 
rected. 

Picking up a small scalpel I made a long scratch, 


MACHETE 


131 


just deep enough to draw a little blood. I took care 
to drop several small wads of blood-covered cotton 
conveniently on the floor and affixed a large and 
important-looking bandage. 

“It was not very painful, Don Carlos,” she beamed 
thankfully when I finished. Her face was wreathed 
in smiles. 

“It is you, Senora—you—your bravery—by your 
quietness and pluck you made my work very easy 
and I certainly hope the operation is going to be suc¬ 
cessful.” 

She smiled gratefully. She looked at the bandage 
and the blood-covered cotton dabs. She was very 
pleased. I had two men carry her home in a chair 
and allowed her very little food. That afternoon I 
went to see her. She was reclining in the midst of a 
group of interested, sympathetic friends, describing 
in detail the horrors of her operation. 

“Oh, Senora!” I gasped, feigning a hurt surprise, 
“You—you receiving visitors the same day that you 
have undergone this serious operation? Please tell 
your friends to kindly leave and call again in a few 
days. You must not overtax your strength.” The 
solicitations of the visitors were very much increased. 
The lady beamed wanly as they left. The next 
morning I changed her bandage. She was radiant. 

“Ai mi, Don Carlos,” she glowed, “I had no pain 
—absolutely no pain, Senor, during all the night.” 
She waved her hands grandly. “No pain during all 
the night! Ai, it is wonderful—wonderful, doctor 
mio, to sleep soundly throughout all the night once 


132 


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again.” She was most appreciative. In a few days I 
took her a pair of crutches that Bill had the carpen¬ 
ter make, and sent word to her friends that she was 
once more able to receive visitors. Her marvelous 
operation constituted the principal topic of local con¬ 
versation. In a week I removed her last bandage. She 
treasured her long, red scratch. She was entirely 
cured and very grateful. 

“You Americans are the greatest surgeons in all 
the world,” she assured me warmly. I thanked her 
in the name of American surgeons. I have always 
contended that she needed that operation. 

Soon we were to harvest another crop. Casandra 
was expected to arrive any day with our old friends, 
the Oaxacas, who were again to cut our cane for us. 
A graduate of a well-known American medical col¬ 
lege was coming to take charge of our dispensary, 
and though I enjoyed taking care of the people there 
were so many other details to take my attention that 
I welcomed the relief from this part of my work. 
The doctor arrived the day before the cane cutters. 
I spent the best part of a week familiarizing him 
with his new duties. He did not relish the isolation 
and complained bitterly when I told him that our 
white employees were not permitted to live with 
native women. 

“What the hell difference does it make?” he 
grumbled. 

“Ask Sutton, he’s the head man,” I admonished, 
but he never went near the superintendent. Sutton 
had a reputation for directness. I learned that this 


MACHETE 


133 


doctor had induced a native to pay him forty pesos 
—a small fortune for a laborer receiving less than two 
pesos a day—to purchase a special medicine that the 
plantation did not provide. Upon investigation the 
medicine proved to be nothing but a tube of sterile 
water, of which we had a large supply. He resigned 
shortly after, leaving us in the midst of the crop 
without any physician. The day before he was sched¬ 
uled to leave he sent for me early in the morning 
with the request that I hurry to the dispensary. Late 
the night before a man had decided to repose on the 
railroad track after imbibing too much aguardiente 
for his own good. In the early morning a locomotive 
pushing in front a long train of empty cane cars to 
the fields, ran over him, completely severing one 
of his legs. Just as I arrived at the dispensary some 
friends were carrying him in on an old piece of 
corrugated iron roofing. The mangled remains of his 
severed leg rested beside him on the improvised 
stretcher. He was not a young man. Mercifully, he 
died while we were operating. 

Sutton hailed me as I passed his office on my way 
from the dispensary to my quarters. “Hey! Can you 
come in a minute?” he called. When I entered I 
found him seated at his desk thoughtfully studying 
a telegram which had just come down from Santa 
Lucrecia. “We’re up against it for a doc,” he in¬ 
formed me seriously. 

“What’s up?” I asked. 

“The bird I figured on just wires that he won’t be 
able to come,” he answered. 


134 


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“That makes it nice. You better ...” 

“Say!” he interrupted, “how about you taking the 
job?” 

“Me?” I questioned, dismayed at the prospect. 

“That’s what I said.” He looked as unyielding as 
a block of granite. 

“Why, Sutton, I’m not a doctor,” I answered. 

“I know that. But we’ll send the serious cases— 
the stuff that gets too much for you down to Port of 
Mexico.” He paused and drummed softly on his desk 
with a pencil. “Well! What do you say? Will you 
take it?” he asked. 

The thought awed me. I, an untrained amateur 
of meager experience, accepting full responsibility 
for the medical care of some two thousand people. 

“Well?” questioned the superintendent. 

“But Sutton ...” I started. 

“Will you take the job?” he interrupted. Sutton 
didn’t like to be “butted”. 

“All right, I’ll take it,” I answered with a feeling 
of confusion for I understood its full significance. 

“That settles that,” he said complacently, crump¬ 
ling up the telegram and dropping it into the waste¬ 
basket. 

In the evening a delegation of plantation em¬ 
ployees came to assure me of their satisfaction at my 
having taken the position. The superintendent went 
to Santa Lucrecia and returned with the required 
permission of the chief political official for me to 
practice medicine within the limits of his territory. 
This was required by law during the harvest. Bill 


MACHETE 


135 


changed the dispensary into a hospital with a ward, 
a reception room and a treatment room and built 
six cots for the use of my more seriously sick patients. 
I engaged the daughter of our transportation fore¬ 
man to act as secretary and keep a careful record of 
our work, and a very bright youth to act as nurse and 
assistant. By keeping the hospital always open for 
treatments I made it unnecessary for any of our 
workmen to lose time from their work to have a 
dressing changed or any minor service rendered. Our 
treatments soon averaged forty a day. One day we 
took care of seventy-five patients. 


CHAPTER XIII 




The Bush Preferred to “Too Many Laws 
and Too Much American Prosperity” 

“Hello, Doc!” I looked up. There was a tall, 
gaunt man standing in the doorway. 

“Hello, yourself! ” I greeted. Without more of an 
invitation he opened the screen and entered. 

“Whew! It’s hot! ” He seated himself, and taking 
off his battered straw sombrero , used it as a fan. His 
hair was thin and fast becoming grey. 

“What I mean, it’s god-damned hot!” he ex¬ 
claimed, mopping a very moist forehead. His skin 
was so blackened by long exposure to the tropical sun 
that it was with difficulty he could be distinguished as 
an American of the north. The whites of his sunken 
eyes were yellow. 

“It’s sure hot,” I agreed, truthfully. My clothing 
was soggy with perspiration. 

“I’ll say! It’s unusual, even for this furnace.” He 
produced two powerful-looking home-made cigars. 
“Have a drag,” he offered. Rising, he came to where 
I sat and handed me one. “That’s good stuff,” he 
explained convincingly. “I know! I raised it down on 
my place.” He fished a box of matches from his 
pocket and lit one. His scrawny hand shook. He was 
infected with malaria. “You’ll like that tobacco. It’s 
sun ripened and the cigar was made by an expert in 
a sanitary daylight factory.” He smiled sardonically. 
Every month or so he turned up at the plantation to 
136 


MACHETE 


137 


procure a small package of quinine and a few bottles 
of aguardiente . The first time I saw him Sutton 
brought him into the dispensary. 

“Meet Mr. Walters,” said Sutton. 

“Walters will do, and Pm glad to know you,” he 
grinned, extending his hand. He had come to the 
plantation to purchase some medicine. 

“Let him have anything we’ve got,” Sutton had 
directed. 

“Thanks, Mr. Superintendent.” He seemed sur¬ 
prised at Sutton’s cordiality. 

“That’s all right, Walters.” Sutton had smiled. 
“We’re neighbors and hail from the same country. 
Always glad to do anything we can for one of our 
own countrymen.” He lived a few miles down the 
river with a Tehuana woman and a brood of half- 
caste children. I had determined at the time that he 
was infected with malaria and had suggested that he 
take a course of fever injections. 

“Not for me, Doc. No one fills me up with queer 
dope,” he had protested firmly. “What I want is a 
little quinine—just a few dimes worth of quinine.” 
So I had weighed out the amount of quinine he asked 
for. 

I glanced across the room at my visitor. His home¬ 
made clothing was clean and the worn gymnasium 
pumps which covered his feet had been freshly 
scrubbed. He leaned back in his chair and puffed his 
strong cigar contentedly. Perceiving my attention, he 
indicated the cigar. 

“How do you like it?” he questioned. 


138 


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“It’s good tobacco,” I agreed truthfully. The cigar 
was good. 

“What do you think of starting that course of 
fever injections today,” I suggested. He looked 
dreadfully thin and his hands shook so pitifully. 

“None of that strange dope for me,” he protested 
again. “I’ll be all right with a little quinine.” He 
smiled reassuringly. His condition never seemed to 
impair the buoyance of his spirt. 

“If you’re so determined not to take the injections, 
why don’t you go north for a time and get over 
the fever?” I advised. 

“North?” He looked at me questioningly. 

“Sure.” I nodded. 

“North?” he questioned again. His tone was deris¬ 
ive. Taking the cigar from between his teeth he 
laughed bitterly. “I suppose you mean back to the 
States?” He paused for me to agree. “I had a job and 
a high school education and a wife back in the town 
that I was born in. I got better than a fair salary. My 
wife and I had grown up together. I thought she was 
the finest girl in the world and no one knew her better 
than I did. She was beautiful and a good housekeeper. 
We were happy—very happy for a year or so after 
we were married. Then she began to develop social 
aspirations. She became very friendly with some of 
our nice people.” He smirked, “Of course, they were 
nice people. They had money and lived in big 
houses.” He raised his head and laughed mirthlessly. 
There was deep repugnance in the gesture. I made no 
comment. In a moment he continued. “The money I 


MACHETE 


139 


earned ceased to satisfy her and she became ashamed 
of the job I held. She thought she was clever— 
plenty hot—sizzling—but she wasn’t. She was just 
easy. The flattery and bootleg hooch of our promi¬ 
nent people. The leaders in our town’s activities. The 
actuating, living examples of what Americans should 
be. My God!” He laughed insanely. 

Intense disgust radiated from his every fiber. “She 
forgot every quiet decent thing she ever knew.” He 
spit the words out viciously. “The little home we 
owned grew inadequate. Good name and honorable 
reputation became secondary. Material progress and 
social advancement became paramount. She was very 
American, and being entirely satisfied with making 
good in a modest sort of way isn’t considered ambi¬ 
tious in the States. Life got to be a continuous jan¬ 
gle.” He paused and his thin lips twisted into a dry 
malevolent grin. “Our home got to be a battleground, 
only we didn’t take any rest between battles like sol¬ 
diers do.” Strange nervous lights showed in his eyes. 

“Don’t you think your wife’s desire in cultivating 
the friendship of substantial people was really an ef- 
ford to help you?” I ventured. 

“Hell, no! ” He sounded like the hissing of a snake. 
“I don’t think that deep down underneath her rotten 
soul, where thoughts commence, that she ever con¬ 
sidered anything but her own selfish desires, damn 
her. She was the spirit of the age in the States.” His 
tone had risen till he was shrieking. “Damn her! 
Damn her putrid soul!” 

“That’s a pretty tough picture of the poor old 


140 


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States. A mighty hard idea for an American to have,” 
I interrupted. His expression darkened instantly. 

“Pm an American—a native born American,” he 
rasped harshly. “Both my parents were native born 
Americans. Everything about me is American, and 
what I say is true—true, god damn it, true. Believe 
me, I know it’s true.” He banged his knee with his 
thin fist. “This idea of money, power—more money 
and more power—no respect for law—no veneration 
for constituted authority—little consideration for the 
sanctity of homes—bootleg hooch—cocaine—United 
States—my country!” He held his head back and 
laughed insanely, “my country!” The words rattled 
emptily in his fever-parched throat, “my country— 
my own country!” He paused dramatically as if to 
give expression to his outraged feelings. 

“Don’t you think that because you’ve had an un¬ 
happy experience—evidently a most unhappy experi¬ 
ence—that you’re just a little bitter and biased?” I 
interjected in an effort to calm him. 

For a moment he maintained a thoughtful silence. 
“Just a little biased?” I repeated. He gazed at the 
floor intently. “Pm an American myself and I know 
something about Americans and Pm willing to bet 
that ninety-five out of every hundred have mighty 
high ideals which they struggle to live up to,” I kept 
on. 

“Pm bitter all right—god damned bitter—maybe 
I’m biased. Pm an American, and damned proud of 
it—maybe I just got a rotten deal.”- He shifted his 


MACHETE 


141 


glance to me. “But money stands for too much there 
—money and power.” 

“Money and power—material success in one form 
or another stand for just as much or more in most 
of the other countries of the world,” I ventured. For 
a time he stared intently in front of him. 

“Well?” he questioned. He was calmer. 

“Yes,” I answered. 

“Finally my wife left our home and eloped with 
a lawyer.” Clearly he felt that he must confide his 
troubles in some one. “He was so used to breaking the 
laws on the statute books, in a way that they could be 
broken with immunity to him, that I guess he fig¬ 
ured a few laws of the Bible in addition didn’t mat¬ 
ter much. He was making lots of money persuading 
juries that gangsters and crooks were the results of 
a complex social system and that their acts were ex¬ 
cusable. He was rich and a member of an honorable 
profession. My wife was progressing. I heard after¬ 
ward that they got married. I guess they found it 
more convenient. I drifted from one place to another. 
One morning I woke up in Port of Mexico. I had 
very little money, no job and a splitting headache. 
The oil company wanted men for their field camps, 
so as soon as I got entirely sober I got a job and left 
for the jungle. It was lonesome way off in the woods. 
I wasn’t used to it—the heat and the isolation. Most 
of the men had women. Finally I bought one. After 
a while she had a child. It was my first child; my 
wife had always been too busy. The oil company was 
going to reduce their force so I decided to give the 


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girl a hundred pesos, shake hands and start for the 
north, but that little boy. He was the cutest kid. 
Whenever I came near him he used to laugh and 
hold out his little arms, and he looked just like my 
baby pictures. His mother was a good woman. She 
had always been everything that a woman could to 
me, but it was him—that little kid that made me 
realize how mighty contented I was. 

“When my job closed with the oil company we 
moved up here on a little patch of land. My woman 
takes care of the chickens and pigs, does the washing 
and cooking and helps with the corn. When she wants 
a few pesos , she sells some bananas or a pig. One of 
her fellow townsmen tried to induce her to take her 
kids and leave. She chased him off the place with a 
machete . An exploring aeroplane from the oil com¬ 
pany flew low over the place. The roar of its motor 
and its dark-flitting shadow terrified the woman and 
her kids. I guess the explorers didn’t see anything 
they wanted. They never came back, thank God. 
No,” he reflected, “I don’t want ever to go back to 
the States. There’s too many laws there—too damn 
many laws and too many crooks who are trained in 
the law to find some worn-out statute which can be 
twisted into an excuse for breaking the law if they 
are paid enough money. I’m happy here. If I ever 
get enough coin ahead I’m going to marry my 
woman ...” 

“It’s a good country,” I interrupted. I had finished 
weighing out the quinine he asked for. 

“You said something, Doc—you certainly said 


MACHETE 


143 


something,” he agreed. “Not too many laws, nor too 
much prosperity. A man’s a man here just because 
he happens to be born a man. You don’t need to be 
nothing else.” 

“How much?” he inquired, producing a few coins 
as I handed him the quinine. He always had a little 
cash. As he walked down the path that led to the 
plantation his ill-fitting home-made clothes flapped 
grotesquely about his skinny figure. 


CHAPTER XIV 

“Caramba! What a Land for a Caballero” Was 
Mexico 

“Well, anyway, you prescribe the pills,” concili¬ 
ated Bill. 

“Yes,” droned Sutton in agreement, “you give the 
pills that cure the pains.” 

“But Pm no doctor,” I protested. 

“True—absolutely true. Neither does every sailor 
wear a sailor hat,” the superintendent ventured. 

“To be a doctor ...” I started. 

“To be a racehorse,” mimicked Sutton, interrupt- 
ing, “you can’t be anything else — it’s impossible, 
but a mule will carry more.” He eyed me humorous¬ 
ly. “You missed learning a lot about nature when 
you gave up being a livestock chaperon—you cer¬ 
tainly did,” he smiled. 

“I’m glad to meet you, doctor or no doctor,” in¬ 
terjected Don David heartily. Sutton and Bill had 
brought Don David and Don Gaspar to spend the 
evening. 

“You’re going to have company this evening,” in¬ 
formed Sutton when I met him at supper. “Yes,” he 
nodded emphatically when I asked him to be more 
explicit. “The Chief and I are bringing the new 
cleaning contractor to call.” His lips twisted into a 
wry grin. “You might ask the locomotive drivers not 
to run over anyone. We want to pass a pleasant eve¬ 
ning without interruptions. And have the store boy 














































































































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145 


bring up plenty of beer, and have it cold, see! Cold 
—what I mean—cold. I’m sick of drinking warm 
beer.” 

Shortly before eight they arrived. 

“Ai mi y doctor” greeted Don Gaspar, clasping me 
in an affectionate abrazOy “I want you to meet mi 
querido amigo y Don David. A Mexican who was 
born in England! ” 

“I guess you’re right,” said Don David pleasantly, 
“my heart is Mexican all right.” Don David, our new 
contractor, had come from England with his father 
when he was just a little boy. Before the revolution 
he had been rich. He had married the daughter of a 
proud old family, a member of the cultured aris¬ 
tocracy which flourished during the regime of Por- 
firio Diaz. The natives were very fond of him and 
happy to be connected with any of his enterprises. 

Don Gaspar was a small man whose handkerchief 
always had wide lace borders and a pronounced odor 
of synthetic perfume. He had merry, flashing eyes 
and a bristling mustache and an air. His family were 
land owners but the revolution had so impoverished 
them that the dictates of necessity had forced him to 
seek employment with us. He had never bothered 
with things commercial before and, finding just the 
place for one of his experience in our small organiza¬ 
tion, had been something of a problem. We called 
him the “man of a hundred virgins,” which pleased 
him very much. 

“Siy Senor y my friend is a Mexican who through 
the dictates of fate was born in England,” he in- 


146 


MACHETE 


sisted when Don David hesitated. His merry eyes 
flashed. Don Gaspar was serious. 

“Aw—you overdo it—he’s just a Limey gone 
wrong,” joked Sutton. 

“No, Senor, he’s Mexican.” Gaspar truly believed 
his definition was correct. 

“Before the revolution life and property were as 
safe here as any place in the world.” Don David was 
reflective. “Robbers were shot at the scene of their 
crime. Criminals were unpopular and crime unsafe. 
Every possible impetus to the progress of the rich 
was afforded by the government, but the peons and 
Indians, by far the majority of the population, were 
entirely overlooked in the scheme of things, except 
so far as to provide laborers for the rich. They were 
drafted together by the petty political chiefs and sold 
into virtual slavery. Soldiers with fixed bayonets and 
loaded rifles drove them to their unwilling tasks. 
Those that protested were shot. I have seen men 
rotting with scurvy, and so weak they could hardly 
stand forced to labor till they fell. I have helped to 
bury a few who could not endure the agony. Then 
when the iron grip of Don Porfirio was relaxed by 
age, came the revolution. All the pent-up fury of 
years of cruel subjugation, of slaughter and abuse 
All the intuitive savagery and lust of a primitive peo¬ 
ple gone suddenly mad with an unaccustomed free¬ 
dom were loosed over night. Leaders rose. Before a 
month they were ousted—or dead. There was no 
law. No life was safe. Property had no value.” 


MACHETE 


147 


“I should think it would have been a good time 
to leave,” interrupted Bill. 

“I did think of going to some other country, but 
it seemed like quitting. Everything I owned I had 
made here. My wife and children had been born here. 
It was my country, and one of English blood does not 
relish leaving what he loves simply because things 
look black.” Don David’s eyes softened. “It was my 
country,” he reflected. 

“It must have been a pretty tough time,” per¬ 
sisted Bill. 

“It was, particularly if you were foreign born. All 
people of foreign birth lived in constant terror of their 
lives. I was shot at several times. Fortunately I was 
never hit. A bullet passed through my pillow one 
night while I was sleeping. It was war—cruel civil 
war among blood-hungry primitive people. It was 
hell. I was captured and held prisoner five days by 
bandits while they ransacked my home and robbed 
me of the last visible evidence of a considerable for¬ 
tune—ten thousand pesos in gold which I had hidden 
there to send my wife and children out of the coun¬ 
try to safety. I had to appeal to a friend for funds 
to get them to the City of Mexico where they sought 
shelter in the home of relatives. For months I never 
went near my house after dark. I hid around in the 
snake-infested brush like a hunted animal. The worst 
of it was there seemed no solution. No force seemed 
strong enough to restore peace and re-establish the 
government. Many hoped that the United States 


148 


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would intervene and guarantee the protection of life 
and property. 

“Then the World War started and I went into the 
British secret service and off to Central America on 
a successful hunt for one of the wireless stations 
which were furnishing military information to the 
German ships in the Pacific. When I returned there 
was nothing left. My dead father’s work and mine 
had been swept away—entirely swept away. But a 
leader had risen—a great leader—strong enough to 
once more make law visible and re-establish govern¬ 
ment. In the new order of things the Indians and 
peons were not forgotten and educational institutions 
were being established to teach them something of 
their own responsibilities.” Don David paused. 

“Do you think they will ever be able to establish 
and maintain peacefully a permanent government?” 
I inquired. 

“Why not? Before the coming of the Spanish they 
had developed a very efficient government. It’s only 
natural to suppose that they can do the same thing 
again,” he answered. 

“But the constant internal strife?” I questioned. 

“Since the coming of the Spaniards the people of 
Mexico have had a continuous struggle against op¬ 
pression in one form or another. This has been the 
reason for the constant strife. If they had not re¬ 
belled against cruelty and oppression they would have 
been hopeless. This constant turmoil proved their 
mettle. The masses of the people will be benefited 
by the new order of things and there will be no more 


MACHETE 


149 


successful revolutions. They will not support any 
effort to disrupt what is helping them. As soon as 
they fully understand, there will be no more dissen- 
tion—no more serious quarrels. It took organization 
and high development to construct those visible evi¬ 
dences of an ancient civilization which cover the 
country, and organization meant government. Some 
day Mexico will be very prosperous, because the 
foundation for great prosperity is here.” 

“My country is a rich land—a very rich land,” 
concurred Don Gaspar warmly, pleased. “But will it 
—mi distinguido amigo —will it succeed as well with 
the peons having so much to say about the manage¬ 
ment of things they don’t understand as it did when 
they had nothing?” 

“I think so,” smiled Don David. 

“It was a wonderful place to live, in those glorious 
old days,” Don Gaspar reflected wistfully. “A won¬ 
derful place,” he repeated. 

“It was a wonderful place for the rich all right,” 
agreed Don David. “It’s going to be a wonderful 
place for the rich and poor, for Mexico is coming into 
its own,” he mused. 

“Ai> those old days—those wonderful old days,” 
sighed Don Gaspar. “ Caramba , what a land for a 
caballero was my country! Mexico was truly a gen¬ 
tleman’s land in those glorious old days.” His voice 
broke. He looked as if he might be moved to tears 
by the memory. “When as a young caballero I lived 
on my own hacienda his tone was half a moan, “I 
always invited the young peon girls who were going 


150 


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to be married to visit my house. They were beautiful 
girls, some of them. I made them gifts and appor¬ 
tioned patches of land for their prospective husbands 
to cultivate, and built them houses. Ai y they loved 
me, those simple children!” His eyes roved yearn¬ 
ingly. “ Caramba! Life was truly worth living.” 

“Don’t you think that you as well as the peons 
would have been better off and happier if the peons 
had been helped to have more self-respect?” I asked. 

“They respected themselves,” he replied. “You 
Americans don’t understand. You are a great people 
but you lack that finer sensibility. To you life means 
nothing but work and rest. The peons are primitive.” 

“But certainly under present conditions that grant 
the peons more voice in their own government the 
foundation is laid for a more prosperous and progres¬ 
sive country,” I suggested. 

“Progress! Progress! That’s all you Americans 
think of. That’s what you measure everything by— 
progress—material progress!” He gestured disdain¬ 
fully. “Progress! Nothing else counts with you but 
progress—progress and money. You absolutely lack 
the finer perception. You spend your days in drudg¬ 
ery. For what?” He waved his hands appealingly. 
“For what?” he demanded again. “Progress and 
money!” He turned his hands palms outward and 
looked at me intently. “Ai, Don Carlos, you Ameri¬ 
cans are a great people but you lack that finer percep¬ 
tion. You marry, but you have no respect for your 
wives. How could you? You don’t understand wom¬ 
en. You work all day and return to your homes in the 


MACHETE 


151 


evening tired out. Your wives do not work so hard. 
You quarrel. There is no happiness. Soon you are 
divorced.” 

“But in Mexico the lower classes have always 
worked hard,” I interrupted. 

“The lower classes are not fine people,” he an¬ 
swered. 

“To us Mexicans of the upper class,” he continued, 
“life means more than a bank account. We don’t 
work so hard. We have our women and learn to 
understand them. After we marry we keep our mis¬ 
tresses, purely out of respect for our wives. We have 
few divorces and much happiness.” 

“But the children of your mistresses?” I ques¬ 
tioned. 

“They are acts of God, Don Carlos—purely acts 
of God.” 

Don Gaspar was a gentleman of the old school— 
the very old school! 


CHAPTER XV 


Skyrockets, Tequila and Mournful Music and 
a Big Toe Is Buried 

“It is when I work that I suffer, Senor!” Aurelio 
looked at me appealingly. “Only when I work.” His 
loose lips parted expectantly, “Ai> Senor , when I labor 
in the sun.” He rolled his eyes sadly, very sadly, as 
if the recollection caused him pain. “I suffer tor¬ 
tures,” he sighed. 

I looked at the tall, lean field-hand. His skin was 
clear and his eyes sparkled with vibrant health. He 
had come to the hospital three days before complain¬ 
ing of numerous indefinite ills. Since his arrival I 
had made repeated attempts to find something tan¬ 
gible the matter with him and had just reached the 
conclusion that he was absolutely well. 

“If I could only live here and be taken care of,” 
he suggested hopefully when I hesitated. He evi¬ 
dently liked the hospital. There was plenty of food 
and no work. 

“But the hospital is for sick men—only for sick 
men, and you are perfectly well,” I explained. 

“Si, Senor , for sick men,” he agreed with a troubled 
look. “But though I am well now, I will get sick as 
soon as I leave.” After three days of delightful leis¬ 
ure the prospect of toiling again in the scorching 
fields was not inviting. Aurelio enjoyed leisure. 

152 


MACHETE 


153 


“No,” I nodded, “you’re not sick.” His loose lips 
closed firmly. He looked determined. 

“I am sick and I need to live in the hospital!” he 
snapped stubbornly. 

“No, Aurelio, you’re not sick,” I repeated. 

“I am sick,” he insisted doggedly. A slight tinge 
of color showed under his brown. Like most bluffers 
he resented being found out. 

“Well,” I said, “at least I can’t find anything the 
matter with you, so we’ll have to send you to the doc¬ 
tor in Port of Mexico for his opinion.” 

“But I don’t want to go to the doctor in Port of 
Mexico! Pm sick and I want to stay here in the hos¬ 
pital.” 

“Sick! Sick!” smirked a voice from the doorway, 
interrupting. “You sick, Aurelio? You’re not sick! 
You’re just lazy—worthless!” The tone was reprov¬ 
ing. “To give you medicine is like clothing a pig in 
silk—just wasting good material.” 

I glanced up hurriedly. There was a serious-look¬ 
ing man with greying hair standing in the doorway. 
I had been so absorbed in talking that I had not 
noticed his entrance. Aurelio’s eyes roved around 
nervously, as if seeking a way of escape. 

“You are lazy, Aurelio—lazy and worthless. I 
know you too well. And you try to play sick so that 
you won’t have to work.” The man in the doorway 
glanced uncompromisingly at the now crestfallen 
field-hand. 

“I am sick,” persisted Aurelio with a sheepish look 
at me. 


154 


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“Poof!” The man in the doorway shrugged his 
shoulders significantly. “Go back to work, Aurelio— 
be honest enough to go back to work, or quit, and 
give Don Carlos time to attend the sick.” His man¬ 
ner was not unkind. 

“But when I work in the sun ...” Aurelio began. 

“Be honest, muchacho” interrupted the man in the 
doorway reprovingly. He gazed steadily at the field- 
hand. 

“Bueno!” Aurelio moved his hands in a sullen ges¬ 
ture and started for the door. The newcomer moved 
aside to let him pass. “Bueno!” Aurelio had no wish 
to argue. The newcomer was evidently a man of 
authority. 

“I am Senor Don Ignacio Urritia, foreman of the 
fuel camp,” smiled the newcomer, introducing him¬ 
self when the field-hand had gone. I smiled too. 
He had saved an uncomfortable situation. “I came 
to ask that you go to my camp at once. One of my 
men—one of my best men cut his foot with an axe 
two days ago and though we have done our best to 
help him our efforts have been futile and he is no 
better.” 

From Don Ignacio’s description, I concluded that 
the injury was serious so I asked that the man be 
brought to the hospital because I could do so much 
more to help him with the better facilities at hand. 

Early in the afternoon a few men arrived, bearing 
my patient in an old hammock which was slung on a 
long pole. The man groaned piteously. He was suf¬ 
fering intense pain. Behind the litter trudged an old. 


MACHETE 


155 


woman with a large bundle balanced on top of her 
head and a young woman carrying a baby—the in¬ 
jured man’s mother and wife. 

“It’s a bad cut—a very bad cut,” explained Don 
Ignacio, solemnly. The man’s axe had slipped while 
he was hewing a hardwood log and half severed a 
great toe, shattering the bone just back of the middle 
joint. The extremity of the toe was cold and lifeless. 
Circulation had been destroyed. The wound was 
putrifying. The stench of rotting flesh was nauseat¬ 
ing. There was great danger of infection or worse 
—gangrene. It required no expert to understand that 
an immediate amputation was necessary. I had never 
seen an amputation performed and my knowledge 
of the proper procedure was limited to a brief study 
in an ancient volume on surgery. The realization, 
under the circumstances, that such an operation was 
imperative and that I would have to perform it was 
not very comforting. An eerie vision of a poor man 
maimed and lamed for life through the bungling of 
an amateur haunted me. 

“Yes, Don Ignacio, it’s a bad cut,” I agreed, after 
concluding my examination. I felt like a lightweight 
bookkeeper about to enter a boxing ring to do battle 
with the heavyweight champion. You have to know 
your stuff to do an amputation. 

“It’s a bad cut,” I stammered with an effort to 
be calm. 

“Si” agreed the foreman. His composure was en¬ 
couraging. 


156 


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“There is only one thing to do and that is to cut 
the toe off—entirely off,” I explained. 

“Entirely off?” He was very serious. 

“Entirely off,” I assured him. “For if ... ” 

“Don Carlos!” the elder woman gasped. Her eyes 
were large and dark and gentle and in them lurked a 
note of terror. “Don Carlos!” A tear coursed weari¬ 
ly down her wrinkled old cheek. “Is there not some 
other way?” she asked brokenly. Mothers the world 
over are like that. The younger woman was mute. 
She did not wish her man to suffer. 

“No, Senoray” I nodded my head in the negative. 
“If the toe is not amputated at once the infection 
may spread and then it might become necessary for 
him to lose his foot—his whole foot—in order to 
save his life.” 

She sobered and became grave. “Will it make him 
lame?” she asked. 

“Not if the operation is successful,” I assured her. 

“I think it’s best, then,” she agreed with an evi¬ 
dent effort. Her mouth trembled. The younger wom¬ 
an stood silently by accepting the pronouncement as 
her own. 

“Cut it off—anything—but get me out of this 
agony!” pleaded the wounded man when I explained 
the necessary procedure to him. 

I thoroughly sterilized my few instruments and 
prepared the field of operation by cleaning it with a 
luke-warm antiseptic solution of moderate strength, 
and then painting it with a weak solution of iodine. 


MACHETE 


157 


Then I prepared and applied a tourniquet to the base 
of the toe to control the bleeding. 

Next I injected four full ampules of novocain. I 
wanted to prevent all the suffering I could. The ap¬ 
prehension at having an amputation performed by 
a rank amateur I could do nothing to allay. When 
the novocain had been allowed sufficient time to 
deaden the pain I made an encircling incision in the 
living flesh down to the bone, tying off the blood ves¬ 
sels with catgut as I came to them. I was careful to 
make the incision in the live flesh so that all the mor¬ 
tifying tissue would be removed. In this way I kept 
ahead of the gangrene. I did not have to cut the bone 
in two. This had been done for me by the man him¬ 
self with his axe. 

When the incision was complete I smoothed the 
shattered bone level with the flesh with a pair of 
bone clippers. Poor surgery and very amateurish. 
When I had finished I dressed the stump with a mild 
palliative and astringent ointment, held in place with 
cotton and a firm bandage. During the operation my 
patient had been absolutely quiet. 

“How do you feel, old boy?” I asked as soon as 
I was through. 

“All right,” he answered huskily. “It doesn’t hurt 
now but please hurry and get it over with. I’ve been 
through hell, Don Carlos—hell!” 

“It’s all done. The operation’s* finished,” I as¬ 
sured him, very glad that the novocain had proved 
effective. 


158 


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“Finished?” he questioned. “Finished?” There 
was relief and delight in his tone. 

“Si, my Juan,” smiled his mother soothingly. Her 
composure had once more returned. His wife stood 
mutely by. She was evidently his silent partner. 

“Glory be,” he sighed, relieved. “It was terrible, 
Don Carlos, terrible—the pain.” 

I made him as comfortable as possible and arranged 
to have his best friend act as a special nurse. I was 
standing by his bedside superintending the arrange¬ 
ments for his comfort when his mother laid her hand 
questioningly on my arm. 

“Si, Senora” I acknowledged. 

“I wonder where it is?” she questioned timorously. 
“Where what is? Senora?” Her question mystified 
me. 

“The toe, Don Carlos, the toe. I have looked all 
over, and I can’t find it. I can’t find it anywhere.” 
There was pain in the way she spoke—pain and a cer¬ 
tain sort of terror. She waved her hands in a gesture 
which included all the hospital. 

“The toe?” I asked, aghast. 

“Si,” she answered gravely. Certainly I failed to 
understand the importance of a severed member. 

“Why, Senora, the toe has been thrown away by 
the steward,” I informed her. 

“Oh, that is bad—very bad, Don Carlos!” She 
moaned. She was very agitated. “That is bad—bad to 
throw away without burial a part severed from a hu¬ 
man body.” She bit the end of her thumb in agitation. 


MACHETE 


159 


“Bad—Bad!” she meditated. “It is worse than bad, 
it is atrocious—frightful.” 

She fixed me with a determined glance. “We must 
find it,” she concluded. 

“But, Senoray it will be destroyed in the incinerator 
with the rest of our cleanings,” I explained as gently 
as I could. 

“Destroyed! Destroyed!” The thought horrified 
her. “Oh, no,” she protested, “that must never be. 
We must find it and bury it as becomes a part which 
is severed from the body of a believer in Christ—a 
true Christian, Don Carlos.” 

“Pm sorry—very sorry, Senora y but I didn’t un¬ 
derstand,” I explained honestly, impressed by her 
earnestness. 

“I know you didn’t,” she smiled. I felt very grati¬ 
fied that my explanation was accepted, as from her 
demeanor I concluded that in my ignorance I had 
violated a cherished custom. 

With the steward’s help I rummaged through the 
cleanings until I found the gruesome thing. I care¬ 
fully wrapped it up in clean tissue paper and pre¬ 
sented it to the old woman. 

“Muchas gracias /” she murmured fervently. From 
her sincerity I concluded that she believed she had 
been spared a disgrace. In the morning the toe was 
carefully placed in an empty cigar box, covered with 
flowers, and given a formal funeral with skyrockets 
and tequila and mournful music. I learned that this 
is an old custom among the Zapotecs. 


160 


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After I had made my patient as comfortable as 
possible, I got him to sleep with the assistance of 
aspirin. This was the only sedative I had. The latter 
part of the night he suffered a great deal and aspirin 
had no effect. Shortly after daylight I changed his 
dressing. The wound looked to be in good condition. 
He had less pain after this and ate a piece of but¬ 
tered toast and drank a little warm milk. He showed 
very little temperature and his general condition 
seemed good. 

After a week he was suffering very little and sleep¬ 
ing well. Within two weeks he was sitting up for an 
hour every afternoon in a rocking chair I brought 
from my house, with his foot resting comfortably on 
a pillow. Though he could not read or write he was 
very interested in the illustrations in some old maga¬ 
zines. A picture of a huge American battleship im¬ 
pressed him most. His eyes grew wide as he examined 
it. He carefully cut it out and secreted it beneath his 
pillow. I think this gave the United States a better 
standing with him. 

In five weeks he was hobbling about on crutches 
and his wound was almost entirely closed. I sent him 
home to finish his convalescence with his family. 
When next I saw him some two months after the 
operation he was walking without any artificial as¬ 
sistance and not limping to any perceptible degree. 
Life has many compensations. 


CHAPTER XVI 

A Negro of “Talents” Ruined by Savage Love 

During Don Ignacio’s absence at the fuel camp 
where he had gone to bring the injured woodcutter 
to the hospital, Ring hobbled in, using a pole to help 
him. One of his ankles was swollen and slightly 
sprained. 

“Lord, let your mercy rest upon me,” he moaned, 
twisting his face into a horrible grimace. He made 
one gulp of the large drink of aguardiente I gave 
him for a bracer. 

“Oh, what a misery—what a misery!” he groaned. 
Apparently he was suffering the extreme of agony. 
“Do you think it will ever get well?” he asked anx¬ 
iously. I carefully examined his injury and assured 
him that I thought he would be perfectly all right 
within a few days and put on a white supporting 
bandage which appeared in startling contrast to his 
flat black foot. 

“This is better—much better, doctor,” he sighed 
with satisfaction, settling himself comfortably in the 
cot which the steward had just prepared. My assist¬ 
ant appeared with a large basin of water and a fresh 
suit of pajamas so I left Ring in his care while I went 
to make preparations to receive the woodcutter. As 
I passed Ring’s cot after having completed the ampu¬ 
tation he hailed me. 


161 


162 


MACHETE 


“Did you cut that fellow’s toe clean off?” he in¬ 
quired in an awed sort of way. 

“Yes,” I answered, qualifying my reply by ex¬ 
plaining that most of the amputation had been done 
by the man himself with his untrustworthy axe. 

“E-m-m-m-m-h! Poor heathen! P-o-o-r heath- 
en! E-m-m-m-m-h /” 

“Did it hurt him?” His wide eyes stared won- 
deringly. 

“It must have. Such an operation couldn’t help but 
hurt, but he was very brave,” I answered. 

“E-m-m-m-m-h! Poor heathen! Poor, ungodly 
heathen!” he exclaimed. He placed the end of a 
fat, black home-made cigar in his mouth, the fumes 
of which revived memories of a horseshoeing shop, 
and drew a long, luxurious, ruminative puff. “Poor 
ungodly heathen!” he exclaimed once more. Then, 
as if to banish an unsavory memory, he withdrew the 
cigar and flicked the ashes daintily on the floor. 

“You know, doctor,” he ventured, “this is the 
coolest spot on the plantation. I ain’t never sweat in 
here yet.” 

“I’m glad you’re comfortable,” I agreed honestly. 

“It’s cool and comfortable here, doctor—certainly 
cool and comfortable,” he choraled. “But these hor¬ 
rors—these continual horrors—sick men, suffering 
men! Having to witness these things corrodes my 
nerves—actually corrodes my nerves!” 

“That’s part of a hospital,” I explained. 

“Yes,” he agreed sadly, “it’s part of a hospital— 
it’s part of the justice of God. The Lord works in 


MACHETE 


163 


wondrous ways to punish his erring children. It’s the 
justice of God, I realize, but it’s hard to see fellow 
human beings suffer so.” 

Ring had arrived the first week of the crop, bear¬ 
ing his worldly possessions wrapped up in an old 
shirt. Upon his arrival he went directly to the engi¬ 
neer. 

“Say, Boss, can you use a first-class man—a man 
of parts and education?” he had inquired. As if to 
illustrate, he rummaged within the old shirt and 
produced a frayed Bible, carefully covered with 
newspapers. He was not a young man. His kinky 
hair was streaked with grey. He was too old to fire 
the boilers and as he knew nothing of mechanics Bill 
gave him a job sweeping out about the cane conveyor. 

“Ain’t you got something more in keeping with my 
talents?” he protested, when Bill showed him his 
work. Ring didn’t like his job. 

“What the hell do you want, the presidency of the 
company or something?” Bill replied gruffly. 

“Oh, no, Mr. Engineer. Please don’t become of¬ 
fended. I just thought there might be something 
more in keeping with my talents. You see, I’m not a 
common man,” he confided. 

“No?” Bill was apologetic. “My mistake. It’s my 
poor eyes and rotten lack of understanding. To me 
you look like a damn common man—and so, if you 
want to work, start in. Possibly if you prove you 
know anything, I might recommend you for a better 
job if an opening comes up.” < 

Ring had regretfully picked up a broom and 


164 


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joined our organization. Bill tried for a week to coax 
his new hand to work consistently. 

One afternoon, while making his rounds, he found 
piles of trash and cane stalks blocking the work of 
his conveyor crew. 

“Where is the man who should keep this clean?” 
he snapped at the chief loader. 

The chief loader shook his head. “Quien sabe y 
Senor y ” he replied. Bill was thoroughly disgusted. 
He was on his way to the shop to assign another 
laborer to his cleaning job when he chanced to dis¬ 
cover a wide, black foot protruding from beneath a 
wrecked cane car. There was something familiar 
about the foot which induced him to give it a vigor- 
out prod. In response, Ring crawled from beneath 
the car, blinking in the strong sunlight. 

“What’s the matter, have you quit or just gone on 
a picnic?” Bill demanded roughly. 

“Before God, Mr. Engineer, I had such misery in 
my stomach that by rights I shouldn’t have come to 
work!” he wailed. 

“Your suffering didn’t seem to interfere with your 
sleeping. This ain’t a Pullman} it’s a cane car and 
you’re supposed to be at work.” 

“But, Mr. Engineer, I got such a misery!” He 
looked at Bill appealingly. 

“All right, go over to the hospital and get fixed 
up and when you fully recover they might be able 
to use you in the fields,” Bill directed. 

“Oh, sir, how inhuman!” Ring moaned. He did 
not fancy the blistering fields. Our field-hands 


MACHETE 


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worked by contract and got paid for only what they 
produced. But Bill was disgusted—and adamant. 

“Go over to the hospital and get fixed up and then 
see the field foreman,” he ordered, and in compli¬ 
ance Ring had come to me. From the first he had 
liked the hospital. 

“You take good care of these men, Doctor,” he 
commented pointedly, glancing through the open 
door of the ward. The place looked clean and com¬ 
fortable and the strong odor of iodoform and disin¬ 
fectant didn’t seem to constitute a disagreeable fea¬ 
ture. After having given him some simple remedy 
for indigestion I had returned him to work with the 
feeling that it would not be long till I should see 
him again. I was not surprised, therefore, when he 
limped in with a swollen ankle which I have always 
believed he deliberately caused. I started for the 
treatment room. Ring stretched luxuriously. “This 
is certainly the coolest spot on the plantation,” he 
yawned. 

“It’s necessary to keep a hospital as pleasant as 
possible,” I answered, pausing. 

“Do you mind if I have my belongings brought 
here?” he asked, and when I consented he explained 
his request by commenting, “I don’t like to leave my 
property in the hovel I dwell in. You never can trust 
these heathen.” 

A few mornings later when I changed his dress¬ 
ing for the day I noticed that the swelling which af¬ 
fected his ankle had entirely subsided. 

“You’re all right again, Ring—all ready for work 


166 


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once more. Tomorrow report to your foreman,” I 
directed. Though he had given no indication of suf¬ 
fering while I was freely moving his ankle and ap¬ 
plying his fresh dressing, at my pronouncement he 
twisted his face into a horrible grimace and com¬ 
menced moaning. 

“Oh, Doctor,” he protested, “I can’t step—I can’t 
bear my weight and here you are driving me, a sick 
and incapacitated creature, out into the scorching heat 
to toil!” 

“If you were sick, Ring, I’d be glad to let you 
stay here. But there’s not a thing the matter with 
you—not a single excuse to keep you here,” I an¬ 
swered. 

“How can you be so cruel as to say I’m not sick 
—a helpless, destitute man?” he moaned. “A kind 
North American gentleman like you!” 

“This is a hospital—a place for sick men, only for 
sick men—and you are not sick,” I explained. 

In the middle of the afternoon I was very busy. 
The steward hurried from the ward to ask that I 
come there at once. One of the patients was suffering 
great pain. It was Ring. 

“Oh, Lord, ease this unworthy sinner’s misery!” 
he moaned as I was trying to discover something 
which might have caused him pain. 

“Please, doctor, could I have just one drink of 
aguardiente to brace me in this hour of suffering?” 
he implored between moans. I gave him a full half 
tumbler over which he smacked his lips in satisfac¬ 
tion. 


MACHETE 


167 


There was nothing—absolutely nothing the mat¬ 
ter with him. The liquid fire evidently consoled him 
somewhat, for he grew calmer and while I was re¬ 
placing his bandage he asked, “What ever brought a 
Christian gentleman like you down to this heathen 
land?” My attention was taken up with what I was 
doing and I did not answer, but my lack of politeness 
made no difference in his desire for conversation. 

“I don’t know what ever possessed me to come 
here,” he continued. “I came to Puerto Barrios in 
Guatemala from Jamaica years ago. Jamaica has too 
many people. I prospered in Guatemala. I owned my 
own business there. That is,” with a sly look, “I just 
the same as owned it. A fine lady, a native of France, 
who operated a luxurious hotel became attached to 
me.” He paused reflectively. “She was a fine lady, 
Doctor, a beautiful lady. She always wore lovely 
clothes—gay and attractive—which fitted her per¬ 
fectly and revealed most delightfully those charming 
bulges and curves which are part of a beautiful 
lady. It was an elegant place,” he ruminated. “We 
had excellent music and dancing there every night. 
Our patrons were among the elite of the city—real 
gentlemen. I was very popular. I did the directing 
and we employed natives to do the rough work. I was 
extremely happy. 

“Then it became necessary for my lady to make a 
trip to France to bring two friends of hers to serve 
the tables. We found it impossible to train the 
uncouth natives in any of the more skilled tasks. 
During her absence I was placed in full charge of the 


168 


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business. She was away a long time—three or four 
months I should say, and before her return I became 
very lonesome,” he sighed. 

“There was a woman erf the town—an evil native 
creature—who, understanding how lonesome I was, 
took adavantage of my condition and made love to 
me—violent love, Doctor—violent love, of which 
only a savage is capable. Ah, such a savage!” He 
gasped at the memory of the violent love. “She just 
wasn’t human—she just wasn’t human, that savage!” 
He gasped again. “She—that heathen—that wicked 
woman, preyed upon my condition until she induced 
me to live at her house.” 

“Lord! ” He brushed his eyes with his hand as if 
to banish the vision. “My lady returned with two 
beautiful girls. It was a great pleasure to see her 
again and she was extremely glad to meet me—the 
French are so very emotional. She unfortunately 
learned that I had been living at the house of the 
wicked woman and she became very angry. Sudden, 
violent anger—that’s an unlovely trait of the Gallic 
character,” he mused. “I pleaded with her but she 
was most unreasonable and refused to employ me 
longer.” 

“After I stopped making money, the wicked 
woman cast me aside. The vile creature actually 
laughed in my face. I was forced upon the streets, 
there to roam like a beast. I didn’t even have proper 
food. In desperation I left Guatemala and came to 
Port of Mexico, earning my passage on a filthy little 
coasting schooner by stowing cargo with a lot of half- 


MACHETE 


169 


naked heathens. Oh, the humiliation of it, Doctor! 
My proud spirit burned, sir—actually burned with 
shame and remorse—I, who had owned my own busi¬ 
ness.” He paused. “I, who had owned my own busi¬ 
ness,” he pondered sadly. “I came here to this plan¬ 
tation, hoping to secure a position more in keeping 
with the abilities of a man of parts and education, 
but alas, I am unappreciated and my lot is even 
harder. Were it not for this book, this golden book” 
—he held up the frayed Bible—“there would be 
nothing to comfort me, nothing to console. Fate is 
cruel, Doctor.” He looked ruefully at me. “Fate is 
cruel!” he repeated. 

“You got a tough break,” I sympathized, “but to¬ 
morrow when you get back to work you’ll have so 
much to do that you won’t have time to worry about 
your troubles.” 

“Do I have to go back?” he begged. 

“I can’t keep a perfectly well man here,” I told 
him. 

“Can’t you intercede with the engineer to give me 
back my former position?” he asked. “It’s much be¬ 
neath my capabilities, but it’s far better than having 
to compete with a horde of ill-smelling villains for 
a few pennies a day.” 

“The engineer’s pretty hard-boiled. Why don’t 
you see him yourself?” I advised. For a moment he 
pondered. Then he turned to me hopefully. 

“Couldn’t you make room for me here?” he asked. 
I assured him that between the steward, the secre¬ 
tary and myself, there was no necessity for additional 


170 


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help. As I gathered up my medicines preparatory to 
starting back for the treatment room he started hum¬ 
ming the words to a mournful tune which I recog¬ 
nized as that ancient lay which seems to bring com¬ 
fort to negroes wherever English is spoken, “Not my 
father or my mother, but it’s me, O Lord, standing in 
the need of prayer.” 

He had gone by the time I reached the hospital in 
the morning. The steward came to me with a worried 
look and reported that we were one bottle of aguar¬ 
diente short. 

It was several weeks later one afternoon, that I 
noticed a well-dressed negro sauntering nonchalantly 
toward the hospital. His general bearing reflected 
superb self-confidence. From the breast pocket of 
his well-fitting white linen coat floated a generous 
portion of a purple silk handkerchief. He twirled a 
well-polished walking stick. It required a second 
glance to convince me that it was Ring. 

“Good afternoon, Doctor,” he bowed, tipping his 
hat with an elegant flourish. “I just dropped in to tell 
you good-bye and see if by any possible chance you 
would care to dispose of one of your volumes on 
medicine. I will pay a generous amount of cash,” he 
suggested when I hesitated, producing a pocket-book 
which he opened to exhibit no mean number of large 
gold coins. “I am leaving in the morning for Belize.” 

“Well!” I floundered. The abrupt change in his 
attitude and condition was somewhat confusing. 

“When I learned that there was no opening for 
one of my capabilities,” he smiled, “I informed my 



MACHETE 


171 


daughter of my unhappy plight, and a few days ago 
I received a letter with the necessary funds for me to 
join her.” He produced a well-filled stamped leather 
cigar case. 

“Will you join me?” he offered. I withdrew a 
cigar. It was a carefully made, expensive product en¬ 
circled by an attractive, rather gaudy band. 

“My daughter and her mother have been keeping 
house for a gentleman in Belize,” he continued when 
we had finished lighting our cigars. “He was of your 
profession, Doctor, being possessed of one of the 
largest apothecary shops in the city. Two years ago 
he died, leaving his entire business to my child. For 
years I haven’t seen her. Her mother and I had 
trouble when she was just a little girl.” He paused 
apologetically. “You see, we were not exactly mar¬ 
ried,” he explained. “She sent me this photograph 
and, though I had not seen her since she was quite a 
girl, I recognized her immediately.” From his inside 
pocket he drew the photograph of an enormous 
negress. “That’s my daughter!” he said proudly. 
“Her mother is getting old and they require capable 
assistance in the management of their affairs.” His 
chest expanded with pride. He was very disappointed 
when I assured him that there was nothing in my 
very limited medical library that I could possibly af¬ 
ford to part with. 

“Good-bye and may good fortune always favor 
you,” he bowed warmly in parting. With a buoyant 
air he strode gaily down the path, his bright new 
shoes squeaking merrily. I wondered, as I watched 


172 


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him, what sort of a famous specialist would have 
arrived in Belize, had I found it possible to part with 
one of my medical books. 









































































































Our Soldier Guards 


Loading Sugar 


One of the Cane Fields 


A Girl of Tehuantepec 









CHAPTER XVII 


The Plague and Steaming Jungle Get Our 
Loved Santiago 

“Make an extra effort to get him well quick. See 
what I mean, quick? In a hurry, get me?” Bill paused 
and mopped his forehead with a grimy handkerchief. 
“It’s a fact, Pills,” he continued, “he’s a key man in 
my department and it’s mighty hard to get along 
without him.” Bill had just arrived with Santiago, 
our head blacksmith. There was a bath towel wrapped 
around the blacksmith’s neck and his voice was very 
husky. 

“I’m not sick!” laughed Santiago, reprovingly. 
“I’m not sick—just got a little cold or something, 
but the chief insists on my coming to the hospital till 
my singing voice returns,” he smiled at Bill. 

“You are sick, damn it!” insisted Bill. “Why, for 
almost two weeks you’ve been getting hoarser and 
hoarser until now you sound like a crow with the pip 
in spite of all the leaves and brews and junk you have 
been taking. Something’s the matter and you’ve got 
to lay off for a few days and get over it, see!” Bill 
glared kindly at the blacksmith. Then he laughed. 
Santiago laughed too. The muscles which seamed his 
mighty arms and shoulders rippled in humorous sym¬ 
pathy beneath his brown, healthy skin. 

“Me sick!” he exclaimed. “Bunk, Senor Ingeniro , 
bunk!” He waved his great work-gnarled hands ex¬ 
pressively. “Bunk!” he repeated, firmly. Lifting his 
173 


174 


MACHETE 


huge right arm he flexed the biceps meaningly. “Me 
sick?” he demanded, laughing. “I certainly feel all 
right.” 

I knew Santiago well. He was an excellent me¬ 
chanic, a close student of the affairs of his country and 
a periodical drunkard. Every day he faithfully read 
the newspapers that came to us from the City of 
Mexico and then thoroughly discussed the news. He 
never forgot the information thus gained. His fund 
of general knowledge was surprising. 

“Me sick?” he questioned once more with a sig¬ 
nificant shrug of his heavy shoulders. “Me sick?” he 
snapped his fingers humorously. “Poof!” He un¬ 
wound the bathtowel and carefully removed the 
leaves of some jungle plant with which his neck was 
plastered. “Pm not sick, Don Carlos, just a little 
hoarse, just a little hoarse or something,” he assured. 

I examined his throat thoroughly and found very 
little irritation and no sign of a diphtheria patch. The 
result of my examination was very satisfying. 

“What do you make of it?” Bill demanded anx¬ 
iously. He was very fond of Santiago. 

“He doesn’t look very bad to me,” I replied. 

“What’s wrong?” he questioned again. 

“Search me!” I answered. “It might be because 
he’s been working in front of a hot fire or smoking 
too much, but I think that a few days rest and a little 
care will make a difference in the way he talks, even 
if he does feel all right.” He had no temperature 
or pain so I painted his throat with idodine, gave him 


MACHETE 


175 


a gargle and sent him home with instructions to keep 
to his house and get a good rest. 

A few days later I went to see him. My treatment 
had done him no good. He was not feeling so well 
and my thermometer indicated that he had a little 
temperature. I examined his throat very carefully. 
There was still scarcely any irritation evident, but 
his condition worried me, so I suggested that he come 
to the hospital where I could take better care of him. 

“Pm not sick, Don Carlos,” he smiled reassuringly 
when I mentioned his coming to the hospital. His 
husky voice was pleasant, undisturbed, with just the 
hint of a laugh in it. 

“But you admit that you don’t feel so well and 
you show a little temperature,” I countered. He relit 
a black cigarette he had been smoking when I en¬ 
tered. 

“Yes,” he admitted between carefully measured 
puffs. He was thoughtful. 

“And this smoking when your throat’s in this con¬ 
dition ...” I began. 

“It’s no help,” he interrupted, “it’s no help.” He 
took a last puff and threw the remainder away. When 
we arrived at the hospital I had the steward prepare 
a cot while I gave Santiago an alcohol rub and 
swabbed his throat with iodine. At the end of the 
week he still ran a little temperature so I sent him 
to Port of Mexico for diagnosis and to have a treat¬ 
ment prescribed. In a few days he returned with a 
simple treatment recommended and the assurance 
that there was nothing alarming the matter with him. 


176 


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I carefully followed the recommended treatment but 
another week passed and he was not a bit improved. 

“What the hell we going to do to get this fellow 
well?” Bill demanded as he dropped in every day. 
There was always a trace of anxiety in his tone. 

“The thing to do is to follow the recommended 
treatment as carefully as we can for a long enough 
time to give it a fair trial, and then if Santiago is 
no better, to send him to another man to examine and 
make other recommendations,” I suggested. 

Bill was thoughtful. Santiago was silent. He was 
beginning to realize that he was sick. Another week 
passed and he was not any better. His temperature 
ran a little higher and a scarcely perceptible tinge of 
color appeared under the brown of each cheek. He 
looked a little thinner and his weight was a few 
pounds less. The tones of his voice were very thick. 
He seemed a little discouraged. His eyes were far 
apart—not too far apart—and expressive without be¬ 
ing weak. They seemed graver. There is something 
infinitely dreadful in witnessing a very strong man 
slowly deprived of his strength, particularly if there 
is nothing that can be done to help him. The lines 
in his face were growing deeper. The weeks of illness 
were sapping his spirit. 

“Something’s wrong—radically wrong—with San¬ 
tiago,” I retold Bill. I was convinced that he was 
suffering from something more serious than a sore 
throat. 

“I know there is.” Bill was depressed. “What can 


MACHETE 


177 


we do, Pills?” His tone was appealing. His eyes were 
desolate—Santiago was his friend. 

“There’s a native physician down at Minatitlan 
who has the reputation of being very competent. We 
might send him there,” I suggested. We both went to 
the hospital to talk the matter over with Santiago. 

“I think it’s a good plan for me to have another 
looking over,” he agreed when we spoke to him. 
He smiled cheerfully. In a week he returned with a 
small box containing six ampules of a medicine, one 
of which I was to inject every day, and the assurance 
that there was nothing much the matter with him. 

Another week dragged by. The ampules were all 
used up. He still ran a slight temperature and seemed 
to be getting worse. It was becoming difficult for him 
to speak understanding^. His voice was thicker. My 
knowledge of tuberculosis is very fragmentary but I 
began to suspect that Santiago was infected with this 
disease. Upon my own responsibility I changed his 
diet, giving him a greater proportion of fattening 
foods and had him spend part of each day lying on 
his cot in the sun. 

“It’s fine to be here at the hospital—fine,” he 
choked one morning after the steward and I had got 
him comfortable in the sun. His wide, intelligent eyes 
were calm but there were deep, tired lines under 
them. 

“I’m glad you’re happy,” I answered, uncertainly. 

“It’s fine,” he continued wistfully, “but I miss 
my wife and children so.” His voice trailed hopeless¬ 
ly. Suddenly he turned. His expressive eyes searched 




178 


MACHETE 


me. “Couldn’t I go home?” he asked. I was on the 
point of urging him to remain at the hospital when it 
occurred to me that anything that could be done to 
keep up his spirits would be of benefit to him. 

“Certainly,” I assured him, “if you will be hap¬ 
pier there.” 

“It’s my home, Don Carlos,” he struggled softly. 
There was a wealth of explanation in his words. 

I went to see him every day. He was slowly get¬ 
ting worse. Though I was not sure what affected him, 
from the nature of his sickness I concluded that the 
hot, damp climate of the plantation was a hindrance 
to his recovery. I therefore started making such ar¬ 
rangements as were necessary to send him and his 
family to Rincon Antanio. Rincon is one of the high¬ 
est points on Tehuantepec. The climate is relatively 
cool and dry and there are several physicians. When 
I first spoke of my plan Santiago was elated. 

“It will be better for me in a cooler, dryer place,” 
he agreed warmly. When I brought him the funds 
to cover his transportation and his first month’s main¬ 
tenance he smiled happily, then he became thought¬ 
ful. 

“I am a citizen of one of the world’s richest coun¬ 
tries. I have been industrious and efficient. Within the 
limits of my capabilities I have been successful, yet 
when I am sick it is necessary for me to depend upon 
my friends,” he mused. 

“Sickness is a misfortune and misfortune comes to 
most of us in one form or another,” I hastened to in¬ 
trude, for the circumstances seemed to depress him. 


MACHETE 


179 


He looked at the small stack of money doubtfully. 
“Certainly it is nothing but a pleasure for your 
friends to do what they can in this emergency,” I 
tried to comfort him. 

“But why should it be necessary for one who has 
worked hard and been honorable to depend on his 
friends?” He gestured expressively. “My land is 
rich, Don Carlos, rich! ” 

“I know you have worked hard and been honor¬ 
able, but sickness ...” 

“In your country there are great fraternities,” he 
interrupted, “great fraternities, Don Carlos, to which 
honorable laboring men can belong, who care for 
their members who are sick or incapacitated. They 
represent well-directed co-ordinated effort. Here 
there are no such institutions. We of Mexico are be¬ 
hind, Don Carlos—behind! We play too much.” He 
nodded his head ruefully. “We Mexicans are intelli¬ 
gent people, but we play too much. We have pro¬ 
duced some of the world’s outstanding leaders. We 
do not lack tradition. Our civilization is one of the 
oldest in history. We do not lack courage. No Mexi¬ 
can worthy of the name is afraid to die.” He paused 
emphatically. “What we need are constructive lead¬ 
ers—leaders who will be too big to be bound by 
wornout ideals—leaders who will forget personal 
ambition and ancient hates and help us fight to live! 
Our land is littered with churches. We require a few 
honest religious leaders. Sometime another Diaz will 
be born, whose acts will be tempered with kindness; 
kindness and real love for his people. Then Mexicans 


180 


MACHETE 


will realize. Then Mexico will be a happy country.” 

He held out his pale, brown hands. They were 
still the knotted hands of a laborer. “They’ve done 
a lot of work,” he said. He raised his head proudly. 
There was something vast, inspiring in the gesture. 
Something courageous. Something which defied the 
outgrown traditions of an ancient race. “They’ve done 
a lot of work—honest work.” He turned. “Some 
day!” he smiled proudly. 

I was busy at the hospital next morning when 
Senora Santiago rushed in. 

“ Sangre! Don Carlos. Sangre! Mucho Sangre!” 
she gasped. She was very excited. Her husband was 
bleeding to death. 

He sat on a rough little home-made stool vomiting 
blood into an untidy pail. He was very weak. A 
neighbor stood by supporting him. In a sweeping ges¬ 
ture he indicated his wife, his children and the little 
hut—their home. He nodded his head in a mute, 
hopeless manner and raised one hand as if to feed 
himself. His glance was steady. There was no fear 
in the brave, brown eyes, but there was sorrow in the 
gesture—sorrow and pity. Santiago understood. His 
wife was crying now, softly and hopelessly, her ex¬ 
citement past. 

I worked for an hour to check the hemorrhage. He 
slept for a time—exhausted. 

When he woke I tried to comfort him, telling him 
that we were holding the launch ready and that men 
would carry him there as soon as he was able to be 
moved. He looked at me gratefully. He tried to 


MACHETE 


181 


smile. He moved his head in a negative manner and 
feebly grasped my hand. His lips trembled. I believe 
he wanted to thank me. At five he had another 
hemorrhage. He tried to speak—there was so much 
to say—but the only sound was a prolonged death 
rattle from a windpipe chocked with blood. The 
brave, brown eyes never faltered. Santiago was 
worthy of his race. Gradually the great chest ceased 
its spasmodic heaving. The great tired hands relaxed. 
The firm mouth slowly opened. At six he died. Died 
bravely in a mud-floored hut, like generations of his 
ancestors before him who had roamed unfettered 
down the ages through the steaming jungles or on 
the burning plains of old Tehuantepec. 

Bees droned through the drowsy afternoon. From 
a tall palm softly floated the sweet song of a bird 
bidding farewell to the setting sun. A fitting requiem. 
A woman wept. Two children stared at the silent 
figure. They didn’t seem to realize that their father 
was dead. He had been sick less than three months. 
The great plague destroys rapidly in the jungle. 

Bill worked half the night helping the carpenters 
make a coffin. We felt sure that Santiago would have 
wanted a coffin. He nursed such ancient prejudices. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


A Daughter of the Sage Brush Gives a 
Life to the Jungle 

The sun blazed. The jungle steamed. Dank, musty 
odors filled the air. I glanced through the open door¬ 
way of the drug store down Santa Lucrecia’s princi¬ 
pal street which was also the railroad right-of-way. 
A tired locomotive came to rest. It was noon. I had 
just concluded a discussion of tropical medicine with 
the Japanese apothecary. I rose and shook hands with 
my friend. 

“Adios, doctor mio y ” he bowed. His Spanish had 
a pronounced Japanese accent. 

“ Adios , doctor mio!” We were both most careless 
of the title. My Spanish strongly savors of United 
States. We still managed to understand most of what 
each other said. Every month I came to Santa Lucre- 
cia to exchange ideas. My friend’s training and ex¬ 
perience was something akin to my own. So far no 
medical journal has bothered for a digest of any of 
the information thus gained. The meetings were 
very helpful, however. 

It was still an hour before the launch left for the 
plantation, so I started for the railroad station cafe 
to while away the time struggling with a Spanish 
newspaper and an over-seasoned lunch. I had not 
proceeded far when some one called my name. Turn¬ 
ing, I was surprised to see Will Perry emerging from 
a doorway. 


182 



MACHETE 


183 


“Hello, Don Carlos!” he greeted warmly. Some 
months before Will had given up his position as 
superintendent of a neighboring plantation, taken his 
three children and gone to the States. 

“This is no country to bring up kids in! ” he had 
explained when he left. I wondered at the time if the 
complicated time-clock life would be endurable after 
the freedom of Tehuantepec. Will had been seven¬ 
teen years in the jungle, but the year before his wife 
had died and the jungle had suddenly become lonely 
—intolerably lonely. 

“Hello,” he greeted again. His unexpected appear¬ 
ance affected me something like the sight of a ghost 
and I stood speechless. 

“It’s me myself in person!” he laughed, sensing 
my surprise. 

“Well, Will!” I finally spluttered. 

“It’s me!” he smiled, “it’s me; you ain’t making no 
mistake!” He beamed wholeheartedly. “This is the 
first time the sight of me ever panicked anyone,” he 
laughed. 

“I knew ...” I began— 

“ C 1 knew you’d be back! ’ ” he mimicked, interrupt¬ 
ing. Turning, he looked out over the steaming 
jungle. “It seems like home,” he ventured. There 
was something ardent in his tone. 

“But the States?” I questioned. 

“The States?” He removed his hat and mopped 
his forehead meditatively. “The States are all right,” 
he continued, “it’s the damn natives that I don’t 


184 


MACHETE 


like!” He gazed at me blankly. “I could never get 
used to the natives.” 

Will had been in the jungle a long time. A tiny 
donkey smothered under an overload of coal oil cans 
filled with river water struggled past in the heat. Be¬ 
hind him a child swaggered, cursing. The municipal 
water system. A short distance away a few repulsive 
buzzards fought over a scrap of filth. A ragged 
peon snored in the shade of a piled jumble of pack¬ 
ing boxes. A scrawny dog lolled, perpetually scratch¬ 
ing at hordes of invisible tormenters. Will cast an 
• appraising eye about. 

“It’s nice to be back,” he yawned. A flock of par¬ 
rots cawed overhead. He slowly inhaled the smoke of 
a black cigarette and gazed at nothing. 

“It’s nice to be back!” he commented again. This 
time his tone was emphatic. 

“There’s something about it,” I agreed. 

“Yes, there’s something about it—there’s sure 
something about it!” he repeated slowly. 

“I suppose you left the children at school in the 
north?” I questioned. 

“No,” he smiled peculiarly, “I brought them back 
with me.” He looked at me half apologetically. “It 
ain’t such a bad place for youngsters who are healthy 
and understand.” The life and traditions of the jun¬ 
gle were part of their blood. 

“Will,” spoke a voice. We both turned. A young 
American girl stood before us. She was tall and sup¬ 
ple and pretty. Her clothing revived memories of 


MACHETE 


185 


Park Avenue in summer. She had a firm, frank, 
sweet expression and clear, kindly eyes. 

“Introduce me, Will! ” she commanded. Her voice 
was musical with that drawl which is peculiar to the 
American Southwest. 

There was something indefinable about her pres¬ 
ence—something indefinable and pulse-quickening. 
Will blushed. 

“Introduce me!” she commanded again. 

“Meet Mrs. Perry,” spluttered Will shyly. 

“What?” I questioned. 

“Yes,” he nodded. 

“Pm glad to meet you—real glad to meet you. 
Will’s told me all about you and still Pm glad to 
meet you.” She smiled. It required more than the 
mere fact of being on a honeymoon to confuse her. 

“That’s broadminded — very broadminded and 
kind, to know all about a person and still be glad to 
meet them,” I managed to say. “But, Mrs. Perry, 
Pm not a doctor—please understand that Pm not a 
doctor and know very little about medicine.” 

“Just the same,” her eyes were undismayed, “doc¬ 
tor or no doctor, having one of your own kind near 
who can help when you are sick is a big help down 
here in the woods.” 

“You’re right,” Will’s tone was positive. 

“You’re lavish, Will—too lavish,” I said. “Don’t 
put too much dependence on what I can do and you 
won’t be disappointed.” 

“All right, Carlos,” he started, puffing his cigar¬ 
ette. “All right!” He filled his lungs with fragrant 


186 


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smoke and exhaled comfortably. “Be your age!” he 
admonished kindly, glancing at me. I couldn’t 
change his opinion. 

“When Will asked me to marry him and come 
down here to live the thought was sort of terrifying.” 
Mrs. Perry evidently found a certain comfort in 
making something of a confidante of a fellow na¬ 
tional. “It wasn’t the lonesomeness. I was born and 
brought up on a sage brush ranch and there isn’t any 
place more lonesome.” She rubbed her eyes reminis¬ 
cently. “Even a lighthouse isn’t so lonesome,” she 
vowed. “If my father hadn’t been successful and 
owned a Ford I couldn’t have gone to high school. 
We lived twenty miles from the county seat. Just 
the same, the prospect of life way down here in the 
bush was sort of terrifying. I guess it was the snakes 
and the poison weeds and the alligators.” She paused. 

“We were married and started down,” she ex¬ 
plained simply. “When we got down here into the 
jungle it reminded me of a time I once dived from 
a high spring-board into deep water. I remember go¬ 
ing down and down and the water getting greener 
and greener till finally the light looked like streaks 
through the green. It seemed like a strange world 
with God’s sunlight far away. A little fish looked like 
a hobgoblin. I was sure happy when I came to the 
surface. As we kept getting deeper into the jungle 
the denser became the green till it seemed to shut out 
the sun. The untidy villages with their barefooted 
people looked like beings and places in another 
world. The foreign language left me numb. The 



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187 


rancid stench of hardwood smoke made me hold my 
breath. But Pm learning to know the people and a 
fascination is taking the place of the strangeness. 
There’s variety in the jungle. It’s different from the 
wide, silent prairies.” 

“There’s certainly variety in the jungle,” I agreed. 

“It’s changeable and interesting,” she smiled. “It 
doesn’t give you time to get lonesome. I know I’m 
going to like it, for I’ll have plenty to do. I’m going 
to have a school for Will’s three little boys.” She 
glanced at her husband. “Then I’ll have Will him¬ 
self.” Will colored beautifully. A scrawny, mud- 
covered mother pig followed by four untidy little 
ones wandered past. “Aren’t they cute?” she laughed. 
Mrs. Will had no time to get lonesome. 

“Good-bye, Don Carlos! We’re going to send for 
you if any of us get sick! ” she advised in parting. 

“Right as usual,” chimed in Will. 

“You’re brave, all right—you certainly are brave,” 
I warned. 

But I was not entirely surprised when some months 
later a man came to my door in the middle of the 
night and handed me a note from Will Perry. The 
note informed that Mrs. Perry was very sick and 
asked that I come at once. Hurriedly getting into 
some clothes I gathered up my instruments and fol¬ 
lowed the man to the river. The round Tehuantepec 
moon rose, flooding the jungle with a weird, misty 
luminance and turning the river into a broad ribbon 
of moving silver. The night was glorious. At the 
river we joined another man who was waiting in a 


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cayuco . I sat in the middle of the narrow dug-out 
while the two men poled it against the shimmery 
flood. The men kept close to the shore. A short dis¬ 
tance away the water was too deep for the poles. 
They did not talk. They were worried. Will’s wife 
had been very kind to them. Occasionally the call of a 
night bird broke the silence. The shadows cast by the 
overhanging branches sketched fantastic designs on 
the changing lustrous background of the water. In¬ 
visible creeping things moved and hissed in the deep 
shadows on the bank. The men hurried. In two hours 
we covered the six miles that separated us from 
Will’s. 

“I’m glad you’re here—I’m sure glad you’re 
here! ” welcomed Will when I stepped ashore at the 
landing. There was relief in his tone. He seized my 
arm in a hurried, nervous, hopeful manner, as a 
drowning man seizes a plank. Mrs. Perry was ex¬ 
pecting soon to become a mother and had reached the 
stage where any slight contingency might cause an 
abortion with the sacrifice of her dear one and the 
possible loss of her life. 

“But, Will, I know so little of what to do in such 
an emergency!” I faltered. I felt impotent, helpless. 
He grasped my arm tighter. 

His youngest child sat on the edge of the bed 
smoothing the troubled forehead. The room was clean 
and cool and feminine. In a corner out of the way 
but immediately available stood a table upon which 
were arranged some dainty hand-made garments and 
a small basket with a soft white lining. Mrs, Perry 


MACHETE 


189 


extended her hand. The danger and the suffering and 
the great lonely jungle hadn’t broken her spirit. 

“It was nice of you to come,” she smiled. Covered 
wagons! Screeching, blood-mad savages! Courage! 
The courage that transformed a continent! An 
abounding faith in God! That’s what that smile 
meant. Her face was softened by suffering and ap¬ 
prehension. Her steady eyes were wide with dread, 
but her smile was glorious. The realization of my 
own helplessness was numbing. 

“But I know so little of what to do,” I stuttered. 

“Just to see one of our own people is a help,” she 
smiled. Her smile was stimulating. It takes a real 
woman to face such a situation and smile. I was proud 
of being an American. She looked at Will. Their 
eyes met in a fathomless hallowed communion. Will’s 
expression grew more tender. Twentieth century 
luxury had not entirely obliterated that indefinable, 
glorious something in the character of a people which 
acknowledges no trials. I had helped barefooted 
mothers bring forth their young on the packed earth 
floors of jungle huts. Such affairs were generally 
simple. Nature had not been weakened by civiliza¬ 
tion. 

All the rest of the night we stood by her bedside 
doing only simple things. We knew of nothing else 
to do. The dull smoky light of dawn sifted past the 
silent jungle sentinels. The mists were slowly dissi¬ 
pated. The pains were gone. The crisis past. There 
was ample time to reach Port of Mexico and the 


190 


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things made necessary by civilization. Outside the 
birds were gay. Their songs were hymns—hymns of 
thanksgiving. 




CHAPTER XIX 

A Machete Flash in the Moonlight 

“The damn half-black blighter!” Pumps muttered 
malignantly as he gazed at the receding figure of our 
master mechanic. “The damn half-black blighter!” 
Pumps’ face was flushed with anger. 

“That’s a pretty hard statement,” I cautioned. “In 
some parts of the States a man would have to be 
absolutely sure to make such an accusation and even 
then it wouldn’t be safe.” 

“There you go, always coughing up the States! 
We aren’t in the States, thank God, and I never ex¬ 
pect to be.” His lips closed bitterly. “The nigger’s 
brat! ” Pumps was very angry. 

“But, Pumps ...” I protested. 

“Thank the Lord I came from a country where to 
be considered a gentleman you have to be born some¬ 
thing besides the brat of a nigger whelp!” Pumps 
was almost screaming. He didn’t hear my protest. 

“You’re letting your temper get away with your 
judgment,” I warned. 

“The States and your damned democracy!” His 
narrow eyes glittered. “Your damned democracy 
which gives precedence to some mechanical slight-of- 
hand and fails to recognize those things which de¬ 
veloped peoples call civilization!” His lips twisted 
malevolently. “Bosh! ” He spit out the word. 

191 


192 


MACHETE 


Pumps had arrived during the first of the crop 
with a roll of diplomas and a broad English accent 
to act as our master mechanic. Since his arrival Bill 
had struggled hopelessly to find one duty of a mas¬ 
ter-mechanic that he could do more than talk about. 
Bill was a noted optimist, but the week before he 
had been forced to make his locomotive repair man 
his master-mechanic and to put his master-mechanic 
to doing the one thing mechanical that he knew he 
could do properly—pack the valves of pumps. Like 
the job, the nickname was appropriate. The erst¬ 
while master-mechanic fitted snugly into both, but 
he failed to realize that the frank acceptance of job 
and name would form a solid foundation to build 
upon for the future. 

“The common blighter!” he muttered. Pumps be¬ 
lieved in the divine right of kings. Without so much 
as a gracious nod he turned abruptly and strode off 
toward the boarding house. 

The object of his displeasure had drifted in at the 
first of the harvest. He was a tall, dusky youth with 
heavy shoulders and big arms and black hair which 
curled crisply. 

“What can you do?” Bill inquired when he asked 
for a job. 

“I’ve had a little railroad experience,” he in¬ 
formed, modestly. Bill looked at his big arms and 
put him to work firing a locomotive. One day out on 
a run the injector on his locomotive broke down. The 
giant negro who managed the throttle sweated and 
cursed unavailingly in the heat. The water in the 


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193 


boiler was falling to the danger point. The engine- 
driver paused to consider. “Knock that fire out of 
her, Kid,” he ordered his fireman. The fireman 
started to obey. 

“Say, Boss, if you don’t mind, I can fix that in¬ 
jector,” he volunteered. 

“The hell you can?” questioned the driver. 

“Yes, sir, I can,” he answered in a convincing tone. 

“Hop to it and make it snappy!” comanded the 
driver, glancing hurriedly at the water gauge. A long 
train of loaded cars was strung out behind them wait¬ 
ing. Obediently the fireman quickly made the neces¬ 
sary repairs and the driver started his train. When 
they checked in at the yards the driver told Bill. 

“Kid,” inquired Bill, “you must know something 
about engines?” 

“I know a little,” he admitted modestly. Not much 
of a hand to boost himself. “I worked in a round¬ 
house back in the States and I do know a little about 
them.” Bill looked at the grimy, half-naked youth 
standing respectfully in front of him. He was seri¬ 
ous and quiet-mannered. 

“How much do you know?” he asked. 

“Not very much,” smiled the fireman. 

“Can you make light repairs?” questioned Bill. 

“Yes,” answered the youth thoughtfully. Bill took 
him off the locomotive and put him in the shop help¬ 
ing the locomotive repair man. We needed mechanics 
too badly to waste one as a fireman. 

One Saturday night the repair man got drunk and 
stayed drunk all week. Bill put his helper in charge 


194 


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of the work. As a result our locomotives were in bet¬ 
ter condition than before. 

“Why do you put that blooming numbskull in 
charge of work that requires a mechanic?” Pumps 
complained to Bill. From the first he had taken a 
violent dislike to the youth. 

“Bologna!” replied Bill. “He knows his job all 
right—he knows his engines like a chorus girl knows 
her curves!” Bill knew a mechanic. 

“He’s a numbskull—a damn insolent nigger and a 
numbskull!” Pumps protested. 

“He knows his j ob all right, and you better not let 
him hear you call him a nigger.” Bill was firm and 
careful. 

“He’s a nigger!” grumbled Pumps. 

“How do you know?” snapped Bill. He didn’t like 
the insinuation. 

“He’s too damn dark to be anything else.” 

“Be your age,” said Bill. “His people might have 
come from Spain or North Dakota.” 

“He’s a nigger—a damn insolent nigger! ” Pumps 
insisted. 

“Get wise to yourself before he hears you,” Bill 
warned. “Whatever else he is, he’s a mechanic and 
that’s the main thing.” 

Pumps never lost an opportunity to vent his dis¬ 
pleasure on his subordinate. When his own lack of 
ability forced Bill to reverse their positions his anti¬ 
pathy knew no bounds. 

“If I didn’t need the money I’d leave the rotten 
place immediately, contract or no contract,” he 


MACHETE 


195 


stormed. “The damn nigger and the swine who hap¬ 
pens to be chief! ” He was careful, however, to do his 
storming safely out of the hearing of Bill or his 
successor. 

From the time Bill made the change he had no 
more difficulty with the shop. Each day’s work was 
carefully outlined and each workman knew just what 
he was expected to do. 

“If I’d only made this discovery at the first!” he 
sighed. It was the end of a busy week and Bill, Sut¬ 
ton and I had met in the tienda for a glass of cool 
beer and a few minutes chat before turning in for the 
night. 

“If Pd only made this discovery at the first of the 
crop! ” he repeated. “Why, damn it, the Kid’s a find. 
He don’t just know his nuts and bolts, he’s capable— 
what I mean—capable. He’ll make a fine assistant 
some day.” 

“Or chief,” suggested Sutton, smiling. 

“Or chief,” agreed Bill. Bill was enthusiastic. 

“What is he, a coon or something?” asked the 
superintendent. 

“I don’t know; he might be, but he’s a mechanic 
all right,” vowed the chief engineer. As we talked 
the steward hurried in. 

“There’s been a fight, Don Carlos,” he panted. He 
had run all the way from the hospital. “A man’s been 
cut, badly cut, Senor —it will be necessary for you to 
come at once!” When we reached the hospital the 
master-mechanic was standing in the middle of the 
reception room. A handkerchief was bound tightly 


196 


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around his left arm where it joined his body, form¬ 
ing a tourniquet. His arm hung useless at his side 
with blood dripping in a steady stream from the ends 
of his helpless fingers. 

“Can you fix me up, Don Carlos?” he asked. In 
spite of his swarthy color he looked ashen, but his 
voice was cool. Ripping off part of his shirt I twisted 
on a tourniquet and after I had the bleeding under 
control I injected some novocaine and washed out the 
wound. It was a gruesome cut exposing the bone. He 
turned his head and looked at the wound. 

“It’s a bad slice—a damn bad slice,” he com¬ 
mented. 

“A little higher and he’d got me in the neck and 
then the chances are you couldn’t have done much to 
help.” I located the severed blood vessels and tied 
them off with cat-gut and then dressed the wound 
with a mild astringent ointment held in place with a 
firm bandage. After I had finished applying the 
dressing I put my patient to bed in a hospital cot. 

“Who you been fighting with?” asked Sutton who 
had stood by helping while I dressed the wound. 

“Some one got me mixed in the dark, Mr. Super¬ 
intendent,” he explained, avoiding a direct answer. 

“Got you mixed in the dark?” Sutton was insis¬ 
tent. The mechanic nodded. 

“I was on my way home from a dance when some 
one stepped from behind a tree which bordered the 
path and socked me with a machete he explained. 

“Have you an idea who it was?” I asked. 

“No,” he shook his head convincingly. 


MACHETE 


197 


“E-m-m-m!” Sutton meditated. “Got a dame?” 
he asked. 

“No,” the mechanic’s eyes were steady. 

“No?” The superintendent looked incredulous. 

“No.” The tone was convincing. 

Sutton mused. “Some dame, or Pm the ashes of 
romance! ” he volunteered, glancing at the wounded 
man. The youth shook his head. 

In the morning Bill hurried into the hospital. 

“How’s my mechanic?” he greeted. His eyes were 
wide with excitement. 

“He’s getting on all right—as well as could be ex¬ 
pected,” I assured him. I had just come from chang¬ 
ing the master-mechanic’s dressing. 

“Say,” Bill said eagerly, “I bet there’s some con¬ 
nection between this and Pumps!” 

“Pumps?” I asked. 

“Yeah, Pumps,” he answered. “The Limey didn’t 
show up for work this morning and I heard that he 
and the kid had a scrap at a dance last night.” To¬ 
gether we went to the master-mechanic’s cot. The 
youth was reticent. 

“Spill it—loosen up,” commanded Bill. 

“It was nothing, Mr. Engineer, nothing. Just a 
personal matter between Pumps and me,” he an¬ 
swered. 

“Nothing?—But you did have a scrap?” Bill per¬ 
sisted. 

“Yes,” admitted the youth, “but it didn’t have 
anything to do with my being cut up.” 

“You’re sure?” Bill looked at him intently. 


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“Pm sure.” The tone was convincing. “Though I 
know Pumps is no friend of mine, I don’t think he 
had anything to do with my being cut. White men 
don’t do things that way.” He shook his head know¬ 
ingly. “Some poor misguided fool just got me mixed 
up in the dark.” 

“But you and Pumps had a fight?” Bill insisted. 

“Yes,” the youth admitted again. “I met Pumps at 
a dance. He’d been drinking too much and was talk¬ 
ing pretty loud. I heard him arguing with Carmen, 
the market girl. He was trying to induce Carmen to 
live with him. Carmen was laughing and telling him 
she didn’t like him enough. I was dancing when I 
heard Pumps cursing in mixed Spanish and English. 
He had entirely lost his temper and was calling Car¬ 
men every vile name he could think of. Some of the 
men were gathering around. I knew what that meant. 
In an effort to keep peace I took hold of his arm and 
tried to drag him outside. He jerked away. ‘I know 
what I’m doing, you god-damned black mongrel!’ he 
yelled. That made my blood boil. I heard he called 
me ‘nigger’ behind my back. ‘That’s a rotten name, 
Limey. Don’t ever call me that again! ’ I warned, and 
started to walk away. I didn’t want any trouble. 

“I guess because I turned he got the idea that he 
could say anything he wanted to. ‘Go to hell, you 
nigger bastard!’ he screamed after me. That made 
me mad clear through. I’m mighty proud of my 
mother’s race. My mother’s a Tehuana, though she 
was born in the States. I turned. There he stood 


MACHETE 


199 


screaming like a crazy man trembling with fury. ‘You 
rotten nigger bastard!’ he yelled. 

“The next thing I remember some men were hold¬ 
ing me while others were carrying Pumps outside. I 
had lost my head as well as my temper and knocked 
Pumps down and out. Pm like my dad. I can’t stand 
anything like that. He’s a mighty good dad; he’s 
had lots of scraps over my mother and her people. 

“I was so upset that I couldn’t dance any more so 
I sat down and talked to some of the men for a 
couple of hours to clear my head and temper.” He 
looked at Bill appealingly. “That’s all there was to 
it,” he said. 

“But you got cut,” Bill persisted. 

“On my way home some one sliced me and then 
beat it in the dark. I didn’t see who it was, but I 
don’t think it was the Limey. That’s not quite a white 
man’s way.” The youth’s voice was steady. He was 
expressing his convictions. 

Bill and I couldn’t find Pumps anywhere on the 
plantation. His room was strewn with scraps of paper 
and worn-out clothing. He had packed hurriedly and 
left. The launch captain told us that he had hired a 
cayuco and started for Santa Lucrecia shortly after 
midnight. Later we learned from the station agent 
in Santa Lucrecia that one of our white employees 
who had a very black eye had bought a ticket for 
Vera Cruz. It was the last we ever heard of Pumps. 
We never found who attacked our master-mechanic. 
The superintendent said he was too busy to bother 
with making much of an investigation. 


200 


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“Let them fight. It’s the one way to keep peace on 
the place,” he ventured. “So after all the chatter, the 
master-mechanic’s nothing but a half-native gone 
United States!” he commented. “Laugh that off— 
try and laugh it off! I sure thought he was a nigger 
or a Hindu or something, he’s so sort of quiet and 
mysterious.” 

Don Isidro, the judge who made an official investi¬ 
gation at the direction of the Presidente Municipal, 
drew his own machete and stood beside the big tree in 
the position the assailant had occupied. Two or three 
times he struck at an imaginary victim coming up the 
path. Then he smiled and shook his head. 

“No native would have missed his neck,” he 
vowed. Don Isidro is something of a Sherlock 
Holmes. 


CHAPTER XX 

Mexican Mendoza, Victim of His Own Racket 

It was Sunday, and on Sundays the river land¬ 
ing became an animated market place. Business was 
brisk. Saturday was payday. 

A long line of cayucos> loaded with fresh fruits 
and various other products, straggled along the shore. 
A fat porker, firmly roped to a post squealed shrilly. 
Chickens lay gasping in the heat, their feet bound 
together with strands of palm fiber. Traveling stores, 
with strings of gay merchandise suspended between 
poles or piled attractively on the ground, advertised 
their wares as the latest from New York and Paris. 
A pretty Indian girl sold cool drinks from behind 
a rough table. After serving each customer she wrig¬ 
gled the glass in a pail of river water. Her customers 
were numerous. The rinsing water had a peculiar 
color. A wrinkled old woman squatted among a litter 
of earthenware globes and haggled noisily ove 
prices. Under a scanty awning a roaming dentist ex¬ 
tracted teeth for a peso per tooth, injecting pain- 
deadening fluid into the gums of each patient with 
the same hypodermic needle which he never both¬ 
ered to sterilize. A crafty, slant-eyed Chinaman sold 
oriental goods which somehow looked as if they 
might have originated in Massachusetts. A gay 
throng of big-hatted, brightly-arrayed peons milled 
incessantly around and drove wonderful bargains. 

201 


202 


MACHETE 


I had finished my work rather early for Sunday, 
mounted my horse and ridden to the market. Loaf¬ 
ing behind a strip of faded velvet upon which was 
displayed a small stock of cheap hardware, was a tall 
athletic-looking German. His tawny, close-cut hair, 
formed a striking contrast to the dark sun-tan of his 
skin. At my approach he snapped rigidly erect, clicked 
his heels together in true military fashion and smiled 
rather stiffly. 

“I understand, sir, that you are the doctor here,” 
he greeted in halting English that contained a pro¬ 
nounced Teutonic accent. I acknowledged that I was 
functioning as such, but denied being a doctor. 

“The people speak highly of your skill, sir,” he 
persisted. Always the “sir.” No easy familiarity about 
his conversation. An ugly scar ran across one side of 
his face. He was a German of the upper class. The 
scar was a prized trophy of student dueling days. 

“The people speak highly of your skill, sir,” he 
repeated pointedly when I failed to notice his first 
comment. I thanked him. 

“Can you do anything for savanone ?” he ques¬ 
tioned, occupying my attention. Savanone is a local 
name for a dermatological affection. I assured him 
that I had frequently treated savanone successfully. 

“I suffer with savanone , sir,” he informed, regard¬ 
ing me expectantly. 

“Yeah?” I answered. 

“Yes, sir.” There was something savoring of a 
military formality in the way he spoke: “I should 
like to call during your office hours, sir,” he persisted. 


MACHETE 


203 


Office hours! The expression was so unusual that it 
was amusing. 

“Come ahead!” I invited informally. 

When I reached the hospital in the morning he 
was waiting there. He had a very mild case and 
agreed to remain at the plantation two weeks during 
which time I was to attempt to cure him. 

“I have been to numerous native doctors, sir, but 
none of them have benefited me,” he informed. 
“Quite natural,” he kept on, “none of them could. 
The primitive dunces lack the ability. It is impossible 
for intellects so little above the savage to grasp even 
the principles of the more intricate sciences.” 

I had a profound respect for the learning of the 
better native doctors. One of them—a very generous 
one—had taught me all I knew about savanone in a 
few minutes. 

“All I know of your trouble and its treatment has 
been taught me by a native physician,” I informed 
him. He smiled tolerantly. Under my treatment he 
started to improve quickly. 

“Emph! The bunglers don’t even know how to 
apply the science they have been taught,” he grunted 
in defense of his idea when he noticed his improve¬ 
ment. He regarded me searchingly. I believe he 
doubted the source of my information. 

“Mexico presents a peculiar picture,” he ventured. 
“The struggle of an incapable, undeveloped people 
to erect a lasting State. 

“But Mexico developed one of the world’s fore¬ 
most civilizations in ancient times and has produced 


204 


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some of the world’s acknowledged leaders in mod¬ 
ern times,” I reminded him. 

“Yes,” he condescended, “their ancient state was 
a monarchy—an absolute monarchy—ruled over by 
a succession of geniuses. That’s their one chance now, 
sir—the creation of another monarchy.” 

“But they don’t seem to want a monarchy. They 
are evidently trying to get away from anything that 
even savors of a monarchy. Undoubtedly they are 
happier governing themselves even if they do make 
mistakes,” I suggested. 

“Happier?” he sniffed. “How can people be hap¬ 
pier knowing that their affairs are directed by a rab¬ 
ble of incapable bunglers?” 

“In a republic the people do their own directing,” 
I mentioned. 

“Sometimes,” he smiled. “Other times they think 
they do, but in a hereditary monarchy they know 
that their affairs are directed by experts whose busi¬ 
ness for generations has been to rule.” 

My patient was from an ancient aristocratic fam¬ 
ily who had been ruined during the war. He hated 
France whom he blamed for causing the conflagra¬ 
tion. 

“Some day, sir,” he said, wagging his head know¬ 
ingly, “some day when it will not serve the interests 
of the rest of the world to come to her rescue, France 
will pay. She will have to fight alone.” As if to illus¬ 
trate he broke a match that he was holding in two 
and dropped the ends on the floor. “Pooh!” His tone 
was calm, but there was deep hate in his manner. 


MACHETE 


205 


“She will forever be crushed.” He glanced ominous¬ 
ly through the open door. 

“When I first landed in Mexico,” he started again, 
shifting his glance, in an evident effort to change 
the topic of conversation, “I went to work for a fel¬ 
low countryman who operated a freight launch on 
the river Usumacinta in Tabasco. There are no roads 
there and the river is the only highway. I worked for 
my friend till I learned the language, then I opened 
a little store in a small village in the interior. Mine 
was the only store there. The country was in revolu¬ 
tion and all the other merchants had left. The only 
law of the region was the will of its dominant chief¬ 
tain, an affable cut-throat named Mendoza. He was 
a likable sort of fellow—something of a Robin Hood 
—helping the poor with the things he stole from 
those who were better off. There were no rich in the 
country. Naturally he was very popular among the 
lower classes. There was no questioning the strength 
of his position. He crushed any opposition to his will 
in a most ruthless manner. His men captured a man 
who had revealed one of his hiding places. Mendoza 
had the prisoner brought before him. While his men 
held the struggling wretch Mendoza cut the flesh 
from the soles of his feet. Then he had his men stand 
the captive on what remained. The wretch fell down. 
The agony was too great. Mendoza had his men lift 
the screaming thing erect. With a long cattle whip 
he flogged him into taking a step. Once more he fell, 
all the time begging to be killed. Mendoza only 
laughed. Finally when his victim was so weak that 


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he could no longer be made to stand, Mendoza 
flogged him to death with the cattle whip. He re¬ 
fused to let the body be buried. What the vultures 
did not devour rotted where it lay. No one else cared 
to divulge any information about Mendoza. He had a 
man hung in front of his house who objected to his 
taking his wife. He shot and killed one of his men 
who disputed his authority. His word was supreme. 
In contrast to his misdeeds he was always willing to 
help those whom he knew to be in need.” 

“Mendoza was an unlimited monarch, a tyrant,” I 
interrupted. 

“Emph!” he complained, “he was a thief—a 
damned thief who was clever enough to make him¬ 
self chief of a region.” His eyes were hard and 
bright. He didn’t like being interrupted. I was about 
to express myself upon chiefs who maintained their 
positions by cruel force when he continued. 

“Within a week after I opened my store I met 
Mendoza. He rode into town at the head of a small 
band of his men and came in and introduced him¬ 
self. He was a jovial, pleasant-mannered scoundrel 
and welcomed me to Tabasco and assured me of his 
desire to help me in any way he could. ‘We need a 
good merchant,’ he said. Before he left he invited 
me to drink. In a few days he returned. There were 
a few peons in at the time making penny purchases. 
Mendoza rolled his eyes as he contemplated. ‘Busi¬ 
ness is good, no?’ he questioned. Then before I had 
opportunity to explain that the only purchases were 
for pennies he added expressively, ‘Under my pro- 


MACHETE 


207 


tection.’ Soon the customers left, awed by the chief’s 
presence. ‘I’m glad that you prosper,’ he mentioned. 
I started again to tell him how small the purchases 
were but he intruded, ‘We Mexicans are poor mer¬ 
chants. We do better as soldiers or farmers. I shall 
see that you have no competition.’ 

“There was nothing for me to do but thank him 
for his interest and invite him to drink. I heated 
some coffee and we had lunch. ‘It is not fitting that 
a merchant should cook his own meals,’ he com¬ 
mented. That afternoon he came in and asked me 
to lend him a hundred pesos. I had little more than 
half that amount. ‘Fifty, then,’ he smiled when I 
disclosed the total of my cash. He bought several ar¬ 
ticles, paying for them out of the money he had just 
extorted. 

“Next morning one of his men arrived, dragging 
after him a little Indian girl who could not have 
been more than fifteen. The man took off his hat and 
bowed respectfully. ‘General Mendoza sent this girl 
to cook for you,’ he explained. I can see her now, 
poor little thing, so scared that she trembled and 
could hardly talk. I thanked the man for his trouble 
and gave him a drink. When he had gone I gave the 
child a few coppers to take to her mother and a little 
paper of white sugar for herself. Then I sent her 
home. What did I want with a baby?” 

“Mendoza came a few days later. ‘You don’t like 
our Mexican girls, no?’ he asked. He seemed a little 
annoyed. I suppose he considered that I was most 
unappreciative. I told him that I liked Mexican girls 


208 


MACHETE 


but that I had a sweetheart back in Germany. This 
seemed to pacify him for he sighed and said that 
he had been in love many times himself. A month 
later my countryman arrived with his freight launch 
and some merchandise for me. It took every bit of 
cash I had to pay for my goods. While I was unpack¬ 
ing my new wares Mendoza entered my store. 
‘Buenos dias y amigo’ he greeted warmly. I stopped 
my work and asked him to have a drink. ‘Business is 
good—very good, no?’ he commented, glancing at 
my newly arrived goods. I explained that the new 
goods were merely renewals to keep up my stock. He 
smiled incredulously, ‘I need two hundred 'pesos , 
amigo’ he informed, ‘two hundred pesos.’ He 
seemed to think that he was asking for very little. 
‘But, amigo, I have sent out all my money to pay for 
my new goods , 5 I explained. ‘No ? 5 He questioned 
slowly. ‘All right, my friend . 5 He regarded me dark¬ 
ly, ‘All right, my friend . 5 He shrugged significantly 
and without further comment left. I felt worried. 
I realized that I had unfortunately created a power¬ 
ful enemy. There was nothing I could do. My little 
business couldn’t survive the continual demands for 
money. Something in his manner made me apprehen¬ 
sive. When night came, instead of sleeping in the 
little room at the back of my store which I used for 
a living and bed room, I made a dummy out of my 
extra clothes and put it in my cot. Then I stretched 
a sleeping mat under the counter for myself. I was 
tired and went to sleep quickly. About midnight an 
explosion that sounded like the roar of a great gun 


MACHETE 


209 


shook the shack to its foundation. The blast very 
nearly tumbled the counter down on top of me. The 
sound of some one running rapidly away from the 
back of the hut reached me. Then all was quiet. The 
townspeople had learned by experience to keep to 
their houses when there was shooting going on and 
Mendoza was about. The explosion had waked me 
from a sound sleep and I lay on my mat scarcely 
daring to breathe. There was not a sound. Even the 
night birds had ceased their calling. After a while I 
mustered up enough courage to crawl to the door 
leading to the back room and peer through. There 
was nothing I could make out in the darkness and I 
dared not light a match. For a long time I knelt at 
the doorway straining every nerve to detect some 
sound or movement. Finally I crept to the cot to in¬ 
vestigate. The dummy was torn to pieces. Some one 
had stuck a large bore shotgun through the little 
window at the back of the shack and discharged both 
barrels into it from the range of a few feet. Pretty 
soon I heard someone moving outside. It was just 
before dawn and very dark but presently I made out 
the shape of a man’s head framed in the little win¬ 
dow. I took careful aim with my pistol and fired. The 
man yelped and fell. I heard him kick the side of the 
shack a few times, then everything was quiet once 
more. It was near dawn and I realized that if I 
wished to see another night I must get all the dis¬ 
tance I possibly could between the village and my¬ 
self before daylight. As quietly as I could I opened 
the front door and looked out. It was too dark to see 


210 


MACHETE 


far but I determined that there was no one in the 
street. I crawled around to the back of the shack to 
investigate. There under the window was a dead 
man. My shot had killed him. I determined to go to 
my countryman and get him to take me down the 
river in his launch. I was very excited in the dark 
and in my excitement I could not make out who the 
dead man was. I was about to start for the launch 
when my curiosity overcame my better judgment and 
I picked up the body, slung it over my shoulder and 
ran to the launch. My countryman and I poled the 
boat into the current and when we got well away 
from the shore he started the engine. Dawn was just 
starting to break and after we got the boat to going 
well I went to the after deck where I had dumped 
the body. There, in the faint half-light lay all that 
remained of Mendoza with a bullet hole in the mid¬ 
dle of his forehead.” 

My patient paused. 

“You overthrew a monarchy,” I ventured. 

“I killed a thief—a smart thief who had subju¬ 
gated a region to his will. Had he been in the States 
he would have been the head of what you call 
gangs.” He smiled at the comparison. 

“Life and property are safe in Tabasco now, 
aren’t they?” I asked. 

“Yes, now that the revolution is over,” he ad¬ 
mitted. He looked at me queerly. Rising, he with¬ 
drew his foot from a basin of antiseptic solution in 
which it was soaking and hobbled to his valise. 

“Do you like souvenirs?” he questioned. I acknowl- 


MACHETE 


211 


edged that I had no particular interest in such 
things. He unlocked the valise and removed some 
odds and ends of clothing that concealed something 
in the bottom. Drawing out a package he carefully 
unwraped it. 

“Meet Senor General Mendoza,” he smiled, hold¬ 
ing out a human skull. In the center of the forehead 
was a small round hole. “I fed the flesh to the ants 
but the skull I keep myself.” His eyes glowed with 


CHAPTER XXI 


Our Chinese Cook Believes in Barbaric 
Mystery 

For a week dilatory swarms of flying ants had 
been filtering into the houses and into the soup. Some 
rain fell every day. The air was close and muggy. 
Nights as well as days sizzled and steamed impar¬ 
tially. The rainy season was upon Us. 

“A-h-h-h-h! ” Sutton yawned and slumped weari¬ 
ly on the bar. Little beads of sweat ran down his 
neck and lost themselves in the folds of his soggy 
shirt. Deep lines showed under his eyes. He looked 
tired—very tired and a little worried. 

“Damn the louts!” The words were harsh. He 
moved his long glass of rum and soda slowly back 
and forth over the unplaned boards. 

“Damn the louts!” he repeated bitterly. Since be¬ 
fore daylight he had toiled in an unsuccessful en¬ 
deavor to complete cutting the few acres of cane 
still standing in the fields. 

“It’s just impossible—impossible!” he wailed. 
“We can’t finish by Monday because none of the 
cutters will work Sunday.” He stood slowly erect 
and stretched the kinks from his tired body. “Each 
bunch has a different excuse,” he compained. “The 
only lie they’ve missed firing at me is that they 
want to go to church! ” He smiled sarcastically. “The 
lousy bums!” He was discouraged and disappointed 
and unduly vindictive. 


212 



Old Louis 


Concha and Juana 
all dolled up 


One of the Landed 
Aristocracy 

Two Dolls 














MACHETE 


213 


“ ‘Make each cutter a contractor!’ ” he mimicked 
in a loud voice. “ ‘Weigh each man’s cane. Pay him 
for only what he produces. Put him on a basis where 
the more he cuts the more money he makes. Provide 
an incentive. That’s the way to hurry the cane in!’ 
That’s what they said in the office.” He yawned, and 
his lips curled scornfully. “Hell! Try and get them 
to work if they’ve got the price of an extra drink— 
just try to do it!” He cocked his head on one side. 
“Ouch!” he grimaced, “ouch! Their flesh ain’t will¬ 
ing and their spirit’s weak. It can’t be done, Pills—it 
just can’t be done.” Splitting a match with his finger¬ 
nail to form a tooth-pick he picked his teeth and pon¬ 
dered. “It can’t be done!” he vowed again. “A few 
more days of soaking rain and it’ll be cheaper to quit 
entirely.” 

The rains were fast turning the fields into quag¬ 
mires through which it was becoming impossible to 
haul cane. The two of us and Don Pedro, the Kor¬ 
ean storekeeper, were alone in the tienda . The night 
was still and dark. The stars were entirely obscured 
by heavy mists. From the distant peon quarters 
drifted the faint tinkle of a guitar and the plaintive 
notes of a native love song. 

“Hell! ” Sutton was certainly tired and bitter. The 
tones of the distant singer’s voice were vivid and 
deep. Something from way down inside of him 
seemed in his music. 

“Don’t you think we’ve expected too much?” I 
ventured. 


214 


MACHETE 


“Expected too much! Expected too much?” he 
retorted, raising his voice. 

“These people are sort of impractical, primitive 
...” I suggested. 

“Bums!” He raised his glass wearily. “Just damn 
lazy ungrateful bums!” He sipped his rum thought¬ 
fully. “Bums, ungrateful bums! The only differ¬ 
ence between these proletarians and those that live 
in the woods is that these don’t have tails.” He 
drained his glass in a series of noisy gulps. “Bums!” 
he repeated emphatically, wiping his mouth with the 
back of one grimy hand. “More?” He looked at me 
questioningly. It was nearly eight o’clock and Don 
Pedro was closing the wooden window blinds for the 
night. 

“Hey, Pedro!” He pointed to the two empty 
glasses with a tired hand. “Two more,” he ordered. 

“Why, I even tried to coax an extra day’s work 
out of the lice by offering a bonus and prizes,” he 
complained. “One more good day—just one more 
good day and we’ll be through—finished—totaled 
up.” He moved his glass back and forth and con¬ 
templated the small piece of ice which chilled it. 
“They ain’t practical, Pills—they just ain’t practical 
or appreciative.” 

We finished our drinks and started from the 
tienda , picking our way along the path with an elec¬ 
tric flashlight. 

“This is my last season in the lousy tropics,” grum¬ 
bled my companion. “I’m going to get a job in one of 
the beet factories up north where they wear under- 


MACHETE 


215 


wear and wash their hands before they eat. Yes, sir! 
Next season I’ll be quitting at six and stepping out 
in the evening with Mona Lisa to look at a picture 
show.” 

In the distance a dim spark moved in the darkness. 
Some one was coming down the path carrying a lan¬ 
tern. 

“What’s wrong now?” Sutton took it for granted 
that no one could be abroad in the sultry night with¬ 
out being a messenger of ill. “Did you ever know it 
to fail?” he fumed. “Wait till a man gets so tired 
that he can hardly drag himself along and then hunt 
him up to slip him some bum steer.” The light was 
approaching rapidly. The bearer was running. “Did 
you ever know it to fail?” Sutton growled again. The 
spark grew into the light of a lantern and Old Louis, 
the Chinese cook, trotted up out of the night. It was 
hard to understand Louis at any time. Now it was 
almost impossible. 

“Have a heart, Chink, and talk United States or 
Spanish or something!” Sutton spoke harshly. 

“Your friend! Your friend!” the old Chinaman 
spluttered incoherently. He was very excited. Taking 
hold of my arm he attempted to drag me down the 
path. 

“Quit jabbering and say something!” said Sutton. 

“Your friend! Your friend!” The Chinaman’s 
skinny hand clutched my arm desperately. 

“Sure we’re your friends. Have you gone nuts or 
are you just snowed up?” Sutton demanded gruffly. 


216 


MACHETE 


“Your friend! Your friend!” There was some¬ 
thing pitiful, something tragic in his voice and actions. 
The dim light of the lantern outlined objects weird¬ 
ly. “Your friend . . . !” 

“What the ... ?” Sutton began. 

“He sick!” As if to illustrate his wish, the old 
Chinaman started running down the path. Sutton and 
I fell into single file behind. Louis led the way to 
an old board shack next to the boarding house where 
he lived with his native wife and a numerous brood 
of children. As we drew near we could hear the hum 
of voices in excited conversation and the terrified, 
heart-broken shrieks of a woman. The tiny front 
room of the hovel was packed tight with neighbors 
who were crowded around a cot upon which lay Louis’ 
youngest son, apparently dead. Among the children 
of the plantation he was my particular favorite. As 
I could never pronounce his name, I always called 
him friend. Louis had meant to tell me that my 
friend was sick, very sick. The child’s eyes were 
glazed. He didn’t seem to be breathing. 

Sutton glanced at the inert form. “Croaked?” he 
questioned. Then he cleared the room of neighbors 
while I endeavored to get the little boy’s pulse. It 
seemed minutes before I detected a flutter. Then I 
felt a slight vibration. I at once started, slowly draw¬ 
ing his little arms outward and upward and then 
bringing them down till they pressed against his 
chest, giving him artificial respiration. In this way I 
filled his lungs with air. I had his mother cover his 
feet with cloths that had been alternately soaked in 


MACHETE 


217 


hot and cold water. This helped his circulation. Slow¬ 
ly his breathing became perceptible and more regular. 
As soon as possible I administered an emetic, which 
partially emptied his stomach. I thought he had been 
poisoned. He became conscious and complained of 
great pain in his abdomen. I gave him a large dose of 
castor oil. 

“What’s the matter with him, Pills?” inquired the 
superintendent. 

“Search me!” 

“What?” Sutton was incredulous. 

“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. 

“Whew!” Sutton wiped the sweat from his fore¬ 
head with the back of a soggy sleeve and regarded 
me quizzically. “Whew!” He ran his fingers through 
his damp hair. “Well,’ anyway, you know he has a 
pain in his bay window.” His lips curved into a 
broken relieved smile. He was fond of the little boy. 

The child had eaten a fair supper and afterward, 
while playing around with the other children, had 
become violently ill. He might have had an emer¬ 
gency attack of appendicits. I was never able to de¬ 
termine what affected him. Near eleven he fell into 
a sound sleep. Next morning he was much better so 
I tried a limited liquid diet, which he assimilated suc¬ 
cessfully. He was a very slight child and I did not 
want to place any unnecessary burden upon his small 
reserve strength. 

“How’s little Lotus Flower?” Sutton asked when 
we met at a late breakfast. He looked much re¬ 
freshed. 


218 


MACHETE 


“He’s much better.” 

“Better?” he smiled. “Better? Pm glad he’s doing 
so good. He’s a smart little kid.” He sopped an egg 
yolk dexterously with toast. “Slip me the dope, Pills 
—I ain’t trying to crab your stuff—go on, slip me 
the dope.” He leaned on the dining table, holding 
his knife and fork poised erect, expectantly. 

“Ask me another.” I shook my head negatively. 

“Go on, don’t be so damn medical! Tell me what’s 
the matter with the kid?” 

“But I don’t know.” 

“What?” he retorted. “He’s alive, ain’t he? Of 
course you know!” 

“I don’t,” I insisted. 

“H-o-o-o-o! ” He exhaled audibly and gazed at 
the ceiling. “Of course you know,” he vowed again. 
“Don’t try shooting the old bologna about tightening 
up his brakes if his carburetor needed adjusting.” 
His expression was very depreciative. “That’s the 
venerable sausage, Pills—the venerable sausage!” 
There was venom in his look. “Sometimes I don’t be¬ 
lieve you know what you know.” The superintendent 
was set in his ways. 

The Chinese boy who waited table served break¬ 
fast alone. Old Louis was asleep. When I arrived 
for lunch the ancient Oriental greeted me at the 
door. 

“How’s the little boy?” I asked. I had been too 
busy during the late forenoon to pay a second visit. 


MACHETE 


219 


“He lives!” He spoke reverently. 

“Yes I know, but ... ?” 

“He lives!” he repeated solemnly as if he had 
not noticed my speaking. “He was dead, but now he 
lives.” 

“Have a heart!” I protested. 

“He was dead, but now he lives!” He pronounced 
the words with deep reverence. 

“Louis!” I spoke as bluntly as I could, “Louis— 
he wasn’t dead. He couldn’t have been dead. If he 
had been, nothing on earth ...” 

“He was dead, but now he lives!” His words were 
soft and clear like those of a minister pronouncing 
a benediction. The dim old eyes were spanning thou¬ 
sands of miles of blue ocean to the burial mounds of 
ancient China. “He will grow to be great to bless the 
memories of his honorable ancestors.” Nothing I 
could say ever altered his opinion. 


CHAPTER XXII 


Too Many Toasts to the Patron Saint and 
Muy Caballero Is Dead 

RAT-a-tat-tat-thump-thump! Rat-a-tat-tat-thump- 
thump! Dawn was just breaking and I lay half 
awake, rubbing my eyes and wondering what it was 
all about. Rat-a-tat-tat-thump-thump! Rat-a-tat-tat- 
thump-thump! The fact that it was the sound of an 
empty-toned drum, finally penetrated the veils of 
sleep and I became fully conscious. Rat-a-tat-tat- 
thump-thump! The sound was hollow, savage, com¬ 
pelling—appealing. There is something pulse-quick¬ 
ening about the beating of a drum; something pulse- 
quickening and barbarous and primitive. Battles have 
been won by its inspiration. 

Rat-a-tat-tat-thump-thump! I got up and went to 
the window. Visibility is not good in the half light 
of early dawn but I made out an old woman going 
along the path with a bundle of firewood balanced 
on top of her head and the sentinel smoking indif¬ 
ferently in front of the soldiers’ quarters. Rat-a-tat- 
tat-thump-thump! The sound came from the peon 
section. Obviously it heralded nothing of much im¬ 
portance. It was too near five to return to bed so I 
took an extra long time in the shower. The cane was 
all cut and ground. The crop was over. Sutton and 
Bill and most of the workmen had gone. The place 
was deserted, lonesome. Rat-a-tat-tat-thump-thump! 

220 


MACHETE 


221 


At infrequent intervals the sound of the drum con¬ 
tinued. On my way to the hospital I met Felipe. 

“Buenos dias> Felipe,” I greeted. “What’s the 
drum?” 

He bowed cordially. 

“The drum, Don Carlos?” he scratched his head 
wonderingly. “The drum?” My ignorance apparent¬ 
ly startled him. 

I nodded. 

“The drum is to inform us that the patron saint of 
all Mexico is here represented by an image which 
is holy.” He spoke reverently. Bending over, he 
cleaned the mud from his shoeless feet with a bit of 
wood. 

“An image of the patron saint of all Mexico?” 
Traveling saints! The idea struck me as rather pe¬ 
culiar. 

“Si. An image which is blessed.” Felipe wondered 
at my lack of understanding. I continued to the hos¬ 
pital wondering. The few people needing my atten¬ 
tion straggled in one at a time. The morning dragged. 
A distinct change from the rush of harvesting. Out¬ 
side the palms sighed in a scorching zephyr and 
swarms of mosquitoes joined in a miserable boring 
chorus. Occasionally the distant drum throbbed. 

Near noon a babble of excited voices reached me 
and from the window I glimpsed a small crowd of 
people coming toward the hospital, some of whom 
were bearing on their shoulders a wide board on 
which was stretched a man. Soon they entered. The 
man’s eyes were half closed. He was in the extreme 


222 


MACHETE 


of agony. He had just been shot. The bullet had torn 
its way into his abdomen and was lodged somewhere 
within his vitals. He was very low. A brief examina¬ 
tion satisfied me that his chances to survive were very 
few. As I worked, a well-formed girl stood by the 
operating table with a round-faced infant bound te¬ 
ller back by a blue rebozo. Her face shone with a 
sort of pisgah gleam. She was calm. She looked as 
if she might have stepped from the stained glass 
niche of a saint or a martyr. 

“Will he live?” Her voice was low, appealing and 
contralto. Her look was tender, imploring, hopeful. 

“I don’t know, Senora” I didn’t like to make too 
rash a promise. “I’ll do all I can for him—all I pos¬ 
sibly can.” Her expression changed. Dumbly, like a 
person in a dream she picked his toil-worn hand and 
absently stroked it. 

“Am I going to live?” It was a struggle for the 
man to talk. He was very low. The girl turned sud¬ 
denly. Her lips trembled. 

“I’ll do everything I can for you—everything!” 
I promised. 

“It doesn’t matter much, one life more or less— 
but it’s hard—it’s hard ...” His words were low, 
indistinct. He was sinking. The girl turned away. 

“I’m not afraid to die. I’m just sorry,” his voice 
was tired, drowsy. For a moment the black eyes glit¬ 
tered. “I am not afraid ...” A little trickle of bloody 
froth seeped from the corner of his mouth. His 
suffering was terrible to watch. He tried to sit up. 
“I’m not afraid ...” He babbled incoherently. The 


MACHETE 


223 


blanch of death was upon him. It was an effort to 
understand. He was gasping. 

Rat-a-tat-tat-thump-thump! The sound of the 
drum, barbarous, entrancing. An image which is 
blessed. The merciless heat. Beautiful maidens leap¬ 
ing to their death in sacred wells. The langour of a 
jungle noon. The heritage of an ancient race. 

“Who shot your man?” I spoke as gently as I 
could. 

“Chato.” She looked at the suffering man on the 
operating table. Behind her soft voice lay a deep 
reservoir of passion. Her eyes gleamed dangerously. 

“Chato?” I was shocked, surprised. I knew Chato. 
He was one of our gang foremen, intelligent, mild- 
mannered and good-natured. 

“Si, Chato!” Her words were convincing, bitter. 
At daylight an old woman and her son had arrived 
with an image of Saint Guadalupe in a box. They had 
come from a village on the other side of Santa Lu- 
crecia and had traveled all night. They were tired so 
the girl offered them a place in her hut to sleep, but 
the old woman was anxious to exhibit her Holy 
Image and had her son beat the drum he carried to 
inform the people that the image of a saint was 
among them. The people of the plantation started 
gathering. They looked at the image and deposited 
small coins in a little dish at its feet. Ill fortune 
might result from lack of proper homage. Soon the 
little hut was crowded. The old woman sent her son 
for tequila. 

Among the first to arrive was Chato. The old 


224 


MACHETE 


woman was generous with the tequila. They drank 
many toasts to the patron saint. Some of them be¬ 
came a little drunk. The carpenter came with his 
guitar and the guests started dancing. Chato asked 
his friend’s permission to dance with the girl. Chato 
was muy caballero. Certainly! The men shook hands. 
Chato was his good friend. When the dance was 
finished, Chato returned the girl to her husband. 
The men shook hands again. Chato bowed and 
thanked the girl for her courtesy. He was certainly 
muy caballero. 

The old woman sent for more tequila. Chato got 
a little drunk and sang a gay song. The guests ap¬ 
plauded warmly. He danced with the girl again and 
returned her to her husband and thanked her for her 
courtesy. Always a gentleman, Chato. Standing in the 
middle of the room he proposed a toast to the good 
virgin—a long toast with many linguistic flourishes. 
Men and women crossed themselves the way the 
padres had taught them. Before the end of the toast 
was reached Chato fell down. He had drunk too 
much tequila. Several of the men stepped forward 
to help him to his feet. Chato was furious. He 
would have everyone understand that he was a 
caballero —a gentleman. His good friend protested 
that he was a little drunk. His fury was a flame that 
scorched him. Chato drew his pistol and shot his 
friend. 

In the middle of the afternoon my patient rose 
on one elbow and fell back dead. I led the girl 
away from the table. 


MACHETE 


225 


“At!” she sighed. “Ai, Don Carlos!” She was cry¬ 
ing now—hysterical. 

“He was a brave man,” I tried to comfort her. 

“He was a brave man and a good man.” Her 
words rattled hollowly. “A good man, Don Carlos!” 

A cloud scudding rapidly across the sky cast a 
dark shadow and a drenching rain fell. The friends 
who had brought him stretched his body on the board 
and when the rain stopped, carried it off into the 
steaming afternoon. They went directly to his house 
and when they reached there they laid the body on 
the dirt floor. The girl placed four candles around it. 
The neighbors prepared food and brought tequila . 
Two women fired off skyrockets. The drum throbbed 
through the quiet afternoon, rhythmic, sensuous, 
barbarous. The blessed image of a saint was among 
us. Men paused and awkwardly crossed themselves 
with the sign of the Christian cross. The carpenter 
nailed a few boards together to form a coffin. The 
sinking sun flamed red behind the low, mist-shrouded 
mountains of Chiapas. 

At daylight a few men on their way to work in 
the fields stopped at the cemetery long enough to 
drop the coffin they carried into a shallow grave. The 
girl with her round-faced baby held to her back by 
a blue rebozo looked on and wept. She was an elo¬ 
quent figure, young and vital and crude. When the 
grave was filled one of the men planted two sticks 
tied together to form a Christian cross at its head. 
As the men continued on their way to work each one 
parted from the girl with a kindly word. For a long 


226 


MACHETE 


time she gazed in lonely silence at the fresh mound 
of earth. Finally she turned, and picking her way 
between the puddles of rainwater, strode oflF into the 
brilliant morning. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


The Glamorous Jungle Recedes Through 
Tears 

“You’re a little thin.” Mother looked at me ap¬ 
praisingly. “Yes,” she affirmed reflectively, “you’re 
a little thin, and harder. The jungle has done you 
good.” My physical state evidently pleased her. 
Mother has always been deeply concerned about the 
health of every one she knew, particularly her chil¬ 
dren. The harvest was over and the plantation closed 
and I had come to Vera Cruz to meet Mother and 
Tots, who had just arrived after a month’s visit in 
the highlands of Mexico. Tots is my niece. Mother 
turned again from her rapt contemplation of the 
interesting life of the Plaza. 

“Yes, sonj you’re certainly in good physical con¬ 
dition,” she reaffirmed. If I have within me some¬ 
thing of the instincts of a physician I inherit them 
from her. Tots and I left for a stroll about town 
and a visit to the ancient Cathedral. Mother rested. 
The trip from Mexico City had tired her. 

“Not a skyscraper or a chain store!” marveled 
Tots as we strolled. “Not one of either. Just these 
beautiful old friendly buildings!” Inherently Tots 
is very American. It was May-day and at noon a 
grand parade of organized labor was to take place on 
the principal street. Long before the advertised time 
for the procession, the street started filling with an 
orderly crowd of eager spectators. A well-dressed 
227 


228 


MACHETE 


middle-aged man, noticing that our position to view 
the spectacle was not of the best, bowed courteously 
and gracefully moved from his place in front of 
us. He undoubtedly recognized us as foreigners— 
Americans. Even to one understanding the country, 
his graciousness was somewhat amazing. Not so very 
many years before an American fleet had bombarded 
the city. Though the parade was scheduled for noon 
it was almost one o’clock before the sound of music 
up the street indicated that the procession was on its 
way. Events take their own time in Vera Cruz. 

Preceding the parade a few youths hurried down 
the street distributing handbills. As one passed me he 
unceremoniously thrust two flaming leaflets into my 
hand. One of them flayed the “Colossus of the 
North” for keeping marines in Nicaragua. The other 
blazed with a lurid denouncement of a mythical mon¬ 
ster called Wall Street, which it blamed for the 
accumulated ills of humanity. Most of the specta¬ 
tors receiving the handbills read them amusedly. 
They were part of the show. Soon the marchers ap¬ 
peared, swinging along briskly behind an excellent 
band and a large silken Mexican Ensign. The spec¬ 
tators uncovered reverently as the National Ensign 
passed. The marchers carried a large flag of red and 
black, the colors of the National labor union, and 
numerous placards. Prominent among the placards 
was one assuring the murdered brothers in Chicago of 
the undying loyalty and eternal friendship of the 
laboring people, of Mexico. 

“Gee!” Tots exclaimed as the placard passed, 


MACHETE 


229 


“something terrible must have happened in Chicago.” 
She gazed after the marchers. “Terrible!” she pon¬ 
dered, “terrible and gory!” She looked at me with a 
troubled expression, “Did you notice anything in the 
morning papers?” she asked. I hadn’t, so as soon as 
the parade was over we hurried to the nearest news¬ 
stand and purchased a complete list of late editions. 
We carefully scrutinized each newspaper but not a 
single reference to any shocking event having trans¬ 
pired in Chicago could we discover. Tots grew 
thoughtful. 

“I wonder if it could possibly be just another or¬ 
dinary gang slaying?” she ventured, somewhat re¬ 
lieved by the thought. At the Imperial we joined 
Mother for a delayed lunch. Our waiter wore a 
small bow of red and black ribbon, so I asked him 
what gory event the placard referred to. 

“Quien sabe?” he smiled, shaking his head. 
“Quien sabe> Senor> but wasn’t it a beautiful pla¬ 
card?” He was a most genial waiter. Sitting near us 
were a group of American tourists. 

“Why don’t you ask one of those people?” urged 
Tots, indicating the group. 

“Do you think they’d know?” I questioned. 

“They should. I recognized that Harvard accent,” 
she answered. But the bored individual I spoke to 
raised his languid eyebrows petulantly and sorrow¬ 
fully shook his head. After luncheon I interviewed 
the hotel manager who seemed to know everything 
and everyone. 


230 


MACHETE 


“Oh, that placard?” he smiled soberly. “That pla¬ 
card, Senor , referred to the terrible riots and mur¬ 
ders which happened in your city of Chicago in the 
year 1894 !” He appeared mildly surprised at my 
expression. 

Evening crept silently in from the gulf. A few 
lights blinked. Magic filled the air—magic and sun¬ 
set. The giant peaks standing guard over the valley 
of the ancients to the westward caught the rays of the 
sinking sun. Night came. The streets filled with peo¬ 
ple in fresh holiday attire. The military band played 
in the Plaza. Mother and Tots retired to pack. The 
music stopped. The crowd dwindled away. Some¬ 
where a dog barked. The deep-throated bell of the 
ancient Cathedral boomed. It was midnight. I got 
up from my seat regretfully. It was my last night in 
Mexico. 

I rose early next morning. In addition to the usual 
multitudinous duties to attend to in order to board 
the ship there were Tots’ souvenirs. Tots has a pen¬ 
chant for souvenirs—a decided penchant. The morn¬ 
ing was fresh and glorious with the fragrance of 
flowers from the Plaza. Patient little donkeys clat¬ 
tered up and down the streets bearing huge loads of 
fresh vegetables or cans of milk. Men swept the 
pavements with brooms made from bundles of green 
bushes attached to the ends of sticks. A heavy 
butcher’s cart passed loaded with halves of beef. A 
succession of street vendors cried their wares. 

Finally we were aboard the ship. Tots checked her 
souvenirs. Not one was missing. She sighed, relieved. 


MACHETE 


231 


The hoarse voice of the ship’s siren rent the air. 
The throng on the dock started waving frantic good¬ 
byes. The captain barked an order from the bridge. 
The lines that held us to the shore were cast off and 
the ship started gently forward, a ripple at her bow. 

Slowly we moved out past the breakwater and 
into the gulf. The venerable time-mellowed build¬ 
ings. The giant mountains. The great, mysterious, 
glamorous jungle stretching away to the south in 
endless green waves grew dim—quickly dim, but not 
from distance. 































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































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